A reader must be acquainted with O'Keeffe on the stage to admire him in the closet. Yet he is entitled to more praise, in being the original author of a certain species of drama, made up of whim and frolic than numberless retailers of wit and sentiment with whom that class of readers are charmed, who are not in the habit of detecting plagiarism.
From Operas, since the Beggar's Opera, little has been required by the town except music and broad humour. The first delights the elegant, the second the inelegant part of an audience; by which means all parties are gratified.
Had O'Keeffe written less, his reputation would have stood higher with the public; and so would that of many an author beside himself: but when a man makes writing his only profession—industry, and prudent forecast for the morrow, will often stimulate him to produce, with heavy heart, that composition which his own judgment condemns. Yet is he compelled to bear the critic's censure, as one whom vanity has incited to send forth crude thoughts with his entire good will, and perfect security as to the high value they will have with the world.
Let it be known to the world, that more than half the authors who come before them thus apparently bold and self-approved, are perhaps sinking under the shame of their puerile works, and discerning in them more faults, from closer attention and laudable timidity, than the most severe of their censurers can point out.
These observations might be some apology for this Opera, if it required any. But it has pleased so well in representation, that its deserts as an exhibition are acknowledged; and if in reading there should appear something of too much intricacy in the plot, or of improbability in the events, the author must be supposed to have seen those faults himself; though want of time, or, most likely, greater reliance upon the power of music than upon his own labour, impelled him gladly to spare the one, in reverence to the other.
The songs have great comic effect on the stage; particularly those by some of the male characters: and the mistakes which arise from the impositions of Spado are highly risible.
As the reader, to form a just judgment on "The Castle of Andalusia," should see it acted; so the auditor, to be equally just, must read it.
| Don Fernando | Mr. Johnstone. |
| Spado | Mr. Munden. |
| Pedrillo | Mr. Fawcett. |
| Don Cæsar | Mr. Townsend. |
| Don Scipio | Mr. Emery. |
| Philippo | Mr. King. |
| Rapino | Mr. Abbot. |
| Calvette | Mr. Atkins. |
| Vasquez | Mr. Klanert. |
| Don Juan | Mr. Davenport. |
| Don Alphonso | Mr. Braham. |
| Victoria | Mrs. Atkins. |
| Catilina | Mrs. Mills. |
| Isabella | Mrs. Powell. |
| Lorenza | Signora Storace. |
| Banditti, Servants, &c. | |
SCENE,—Spain.
THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
A Cavern with winding Stairs, and recesses cut in the Rock; a large Lamp hanging in the Centre; a Table, Wine, Fruits, &c. in disorder.—At the Head Don Cæsar; on each Side Spado, Sanguino, Rapino, and others of the Banditti.
Don Cæsar. Here we sons of freedom dwell,
In our friendly, rock-hewn cell;
Pleasure's dictates we obey,
Nature points us out the way,
Ever social, great and free,
Valour guards our liberty.
AIR.
Don Cæsar. Of severe and partial laws,
Venal judges, Alguazils;
Dreary dungeons' iron jaws,
Oar and gibbet—whips or wheels,
Let's never think
While thus me drink
Sweet Muscadine!
O life divine!
Chorus.—Here we sons of freedom dwell, &c.
Don Cæsar. Come, cavaliers, our carbines are loaded, our hearts are light: charge your glasses, Bacchus gives the word, and a volley makes us immortal as the rosy god.—Fire!
Spado. Ay, captain, this is noble firing—Oh, I love a volley of grape-shot.—Are we to have any sky-light in our cave?
[Looking at Sanguino's Glass.
Don Cæsar. Oh, no! a brimmer round.—Come, a good booty to us to-night.
[All drink.
Spado. Booty! Oh, I love to rob a fat priest.—Stand, says I, and then I knock him down.
Sang. My nose bleeds. [Looks at his Handkerchief.] I wonder what colour is a coward's blood?
Spado. Don't you see it's red?
Sang. Ha! call me coward, [Rises in fury.] sirrah? Captain! cavaliers!—But this scar on my forehead contradicts the miscreant.
Spado. Scar on your forehead!—Ay, you will look behind you, when you run away.
Sang. I'll stab the villain—[Draws Stilletto.]—I will, by Heaven.
Don Cæsar. Pho, Sanguino! you know when a jest offers, Spado regards neither time, place, nor person.
All. [Interposing.] Don't hurt little Spado.
Spado. [Hiding behind.] No, don't hurt little Spado.
Sang. Run away! Armies have confessed my valour: the time has been—but no matter.
[Sits.
Don Cæsar. Come, away with reflection on the past, or care for the future; the present is the golden moment of possession.—Let us enjoy it.
All. Ay, ay, let us enjoy it.
Don Cæsar. You know, cavaliers, when I entered into this noble fraternity, I boasted only of a little courage sharpened by necessity, the result of my youthful follies, a father's severity, and the malice of a good-natured dame.
Spado. Captain, here's a speedy walk-off to old women.
All. [Drink] Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Don Cæsar. When you did me the honour to elect me your captain, two conditions I stipulated:——Though at war with the world abroad, unity and social mirth should preside over our little commonwealth at home.
Spado. Yes, but Sanguino's for no head—he'll have ours a commonwealth of fists and elbows.
Don Cæsar. The other, unless to preserve your own lives, never commit a murder.
Spado. I murdered since that——a bishop's coach-horse.
All. Ha! ha! ha!
Don Cæsar. Hand me that red wine.
Flow, thou regal purple stream,
Tinctur'd by the solar beam,
In my goblet sparkling rise,
Cheer my heart and glad my eyes.
My brain ascend on fancy's wing,
'Noint me, wine, a jovial king.
While I live, I'll lave my clay,
When I'm dead and gone away,
Let my thirsty subjects say,
A month he reign'd, but that was May.
[Thunder.]
Don Cæsar. Hark, how distinct we hear the thunder through this vast body of earth and rock.—Rapino, is Calvette above, upon his post?
Rap. Yes.
Don Cæsar. Spado, 'tis your business to relieve the centinel.
Spado. Relieve! what's the matter with him?
Don Cæsar. Come, come, no jesting with duty—'tis your watch.
Spado. Let the wolves watch for me—my duty is to get supper ready.—[Thunder.]—Go up! Od's fire, do you think I'm a Salamander?—D'ye hear?
Sang. No sport, I fear.
Don Cæsar. Then call Calvette, lock down the trap-door, and get us some more wine from the cistern.
Spado. Wine! Ay, captain; and this being a night of peace, we'll have a dish of olives.
Sang. No, peace! we'll up and scour the forest presently. But well thought on; a rich old fellow, one Don Scipio, has lately come to reside in the castle on the skirts of the forest—what say you to plunder there?
Don Cæsar. Not to-night—I know my time—I have my reasons—I shall give command on that business. But where's the stranger we brought in at our last excursion?
Rap. He reposes in yonder recess.
Spado. Ay, egad, there he lies, with a face as innocent—[Aside.]—If my fellow-rooks would but fly off, I'd have the pigeon here within all to myself.
Cal. [Appears at the Top of the winding Stairs, with a Lanthorn.] A booty.
Sang. Good news, cavaliers; here comes Calvette.
Cal. A booty!
Sang. What! where?
Cal. Soft—but one man!
Sang. But one man! Is he alone?
Cal. Quite.
Spado. One man, and alone—that's odd!
Cal. He seems in years, but his habit, as well as I could distinguish, speaks him noble.
[Descends.
Don Cæsar. Then he'll fight.—My arms!