ly so much impulse of
correspondence as resulted from the receipt of a friend's letter. Is it
very frivolous to write all these letters, on no business whatsoever?
What I think is, that one will soon be going into the country, where one
hears no music, and sees no pictures, and so one will have nothing to
write about. I mean to take down a Thucydides, to feed on: like a whole
Parmesan. But at present here I am in London: last night I went to see
Acis and Galatea brought out, with Handel's music, and Stanfield's
scenery: really the best done thing I have seen for many a year. As I
sat alone (alone in spirit) in the pit, I wished for you: and now Sunday
is over: I have been to church: I have dined at Portland Place: {102} and
now I come home to my lodgings: light my pipe: and will whisper something
over to Italy. You talk of your Naples: and that one cannot understand
Theocritus without having been on those shores. I tell you, you can't
understand Macready without coming to London and seeing his revival of
Acis and Galatea. You enter Drury Lane at a quarter to seven: the pit is
already nearly full: but you find a seat, and a very pleasant one. Box
doors open and shut: ladies take off their shawls and seat themselves:
gentlemen twist their side curls: the musicians come up from under the
stage one by one: 'tis just upon seven: Macready is very punctual: Mr. T.
Cooke is in his place with his marshal's baton in his hand: he lifts it
up: and off they set with old Handel's noble overture. As it is playing,
the red velvet curtain (which Macready has substituted, not wisely, for
the old green one) draws apart: and you see a rich drop scene, all
festooned and arabesqued with River Gods, Nymphs, and their emblems; and
in the centre a delightful, large, good copy of Poussin's great landscape
(of which I used to have a print in my rooms) where the Cyclops is seen
seated on a mountain, looking over the sea-shore. The overture ends, the
drop scene rises, and there is the sea-shore, a long curling bay: the sea
heaving under the moon, and breaking upon the beach, and rolling the surf
down--the stage! This is really capitally done. But enough of
description. The choruses were well sung, well acted, well dressed, and
well grouped; and the whole thing creditable and pleasant. Do you know
the music? It is of Handel's best: and as classical as any man who wore
a full-bottomed wig could write. I think Handel never gets out of his