all unrepentant Hoxton, the Yell of Doom
was ceaseless. What credulous Muggletonian,
persuaded that the end of all things was
arrived, had gone to this expense? What
charitable prophet, regardless of the
peculiar privileges of his private congregation, had
thus "given the office" to universal Islington?
These were, of course, my first
thoughts, and I was naturally disappointed
to find the Yell of Doom, a play; no, not a
play; " A Mystical and Traditional Drama,
full of Startling Effects, Fierce Combats,
Strange Omens, and Supernatural Visitations;"
nay, more, " A New European Marvel,
got up with most extravagant and reckless
splendour, to herald and enlighten the
New Year." I confess I envy no man
the strength of character which could have
resisted such an invitation as this; I cannot
sympathise, I repeat it, with that capitalist,
be he who he may, who could button up his
pockets, and assert that, for the gallery,
" Equal to the boxes at any other Theatre,"
a fourpenny was too extravagant; let such
an one go to the " Back Pit " (admission
threepence), is our stern anathema, nor will
he be admitted there, resumes the playbill,
"unless in suitable attire." What a
revelation of the secret springs of action in the
dramatis personae did that playbill afford!
How completely did the author of the Yell
of Doom reject in it the claptrap conventionalities
of contretemps and misunderstanding,
and how skilfully did he waive all
concealement from his audience, of the characters in
the coming scenes. For instance, "Geoffrey
de la Morne—a daring pirate, instigated by
revenge to forego every feeling of humanity;
one who owes a heavy debt of vengeance to
Sir Lionel, and pays it fearfully." Observe
what an insight we thus get into the villain
of the piece from the very first; we are told
what is his profession,—piracy; and that he has
foregone all human sympathy, and the reason
of it,—Revenge; and again, that there may be
no possibilty of doubt, that Revenge is indeed
the reason of it, and that the object of that
Revenge is Sir Lionel. "Sir Lionel Lincoln,
—a wealthy baronet; kind and benevolent."
There is, therefore, no adequate cause for this
terrible sentiment being entertained against
him; nothing, at least (which, however, is
subsequently stated), but his having "wooed
and won (from Geoffrey) Evelyn de Montmorenci
in her young life's halcyon spring;" so
that we have the bad man and the good man
of the drama, indicated already, by two of
those touches—a mere word here or there,
perhaps—but such as lay bare the human
heart, and are the true tests of genius.
"Edward Lincoln—his son, an officer full of
honour and honours" (this word in italics, lest
unobservant Islington should miss the jest),
"mild as a lamb, brave as a lion." Is not
this, without doubt, the self-sacrificing, but
rather heavy filial party; has he not upon his
hands, too. the guardianship of that orphan
daughter of his friend and companion in
arms, "who fell, sir-r-r-r, by my side upon
the battle plain;" (at which statement the
comic party will remark, "And did he hurt
himself much, poor fellow?"); and does he
not answer in high life to "Barney, an
undaunted, open-hearted lad," in low?

Again, "Archibald Haddock—a fisherman,
one of the old school." His characteristics
are surely developed at once to a nicety by
that expressive form of words. Is he not a
grey-headed seafaring person, who is old, 'tis
true, but yet, thank Heaven, has strength
left in that honest arm, to shield his Angela
(who, however, is not his, but the daughter
of somebody else by a secret marriage) from
ruffian hands—consisting of some dozen
pairs of them, besides their leader, the pirate
chief, who is stuck over with pistols like the
wall of an armoury, but all to be kept at bay
by the fisherman of the old school with a
boat-hook. Will not " Francois—a French
sailor," speak broken (Hoxton) English as no
Frenchman ever spoke, and insist upon
drawing his knife upon " Ben Brace," instead of
" having a round " with him? Will not
"Wilhelm—the Dutchman," be always
presenting, not his face in all its breadth to the
delighted gallery? and will not " Doctor
Forbes—an eminent and worthy physician,"
exhibit all that respectable idiocy which we
fully expect of him? The very mysterious
and dread secrets of the pice are awfully
foreshadowed by the indiscretion of the
playwbill: "Shades in the phantom tableau;
Leolyn——, De La Morne (first cousin to the
above)——;" a namelessness that srikes
terror to the soul.

The day upon which the Yell of Doom
first attracted my attention, was upon a
Monday; the next day I was unavoidably
trammelled by a business engagement; but
on the ensuing Wednesday, after a hasty
dinner at the barbarian hour of three, I was
careering in a Hansom cab towards Hoxton
Theatre, which " opens for the convenience
of early visitors at half-past five." My home
being in Kensington, the way was long, and
was, moreover, artificially protracted by the
companionship of my friend, who was good
enough to sketch for me the history of
the Greek drama from Simonides to
Menander between Kensington turnpike and
King's Cross. From what he could gather
from my play-bill, he said he was convinced
that the Yell of Doom would bear a great
similarity to the Eumenides of Aeshylus:
and confidently predicted pardon for Geoffrey
de la Morne.

We had reached the doors of the theatre,
and in another minute were engrossed in the
breathless interest attaching to the Yell of
Doom; early as we thought to have been,
the second scene was already beginning, and
the business of blessing being carried on
apace; " my child, my child," and, " Heaven
be with you," from Sir Lionel, were indeed