excellence which they can neither reach nor find a substitute for! Who has praised Sir Walter, who has not had a fling at him, since he lost all that he was worth? Oh! if he would but write the 'Life of George Iv.!' Who that had felt Kean's immeasurable superiority in Othello, was not glad to see him brought to the ordinary level in a vulgar crim. con? No: a man of true genius and common observation, instead of being disappointed at not carrying the prize by acclamation, and exciting gratitude equal to the pleasure he gives, ought to be thankful that he is not hooted from the stage, and torn in pieces by the rabble, as soon as he quits his lair of solitary obscurity. Every man of that sort is assuredly looked upon by the vulgar as having dealings with the devil, because they do not see the spells, the mighty magic he hath used,' and they would make an auto-da-fé of him if they durst, as they formerly burnt a witch! They contrive to torture him enough, as it is. What was it made men burn astrologers and alchemists in former times, but the sense of power and knowledge which the illiterate hind did not possess? Are the reading different from the unreading public? Believe it not. But this power was supposed to be exercised for evil purposes, whereas genius has a beneficial influence. That doubles the obligation, and fixes the ingratitude. The critical public view the appearance of an original mind with the sidelong glances and the doux yeux with which the animals at Exeter-'Change regard the strange visitants; but if any one trusting to the amiable looks and playful gambols of the one or the other opens the door of his own folly to let them out, he will soon see how it will fare with him. There are a million of people in this single metropolis, each of whom would willingly stand on the pedestal which you occupy. Will they forgive you for thrusting them from their place, or not triumph if they see you totter? Beware how you climb the slippery ascent; do not neglect your footing when you are there. Such is the natural feeling; and then comes the philosophical critic, and tells you with a face of lead and brass that no more indulgence is to be shewn to the indiscretions of a man of genius than to any other!' What! you make him drunk and mad with applause and then blame him for not being sober, you lift him to a pinnacle, and then say he is not to be giddy, you own he is to be a creature of impulse, and yet you would regulate him like a machine, you expect him to be all fire and air, to wing the empyrean, and to take you with him, and yet you would have him a muck-worm crawling the earth! But it is a Scotch critic who says this-let us pass on. If an actor is indeed six feet high, with a face like a pasteboard mask, he may pass in the crowd and will have the mob on his side; but if he can only boast "The fiery soul, that working out its way, And o'er informed the tenement of clay' he stands in equal peril of the unthinking many, and the fastidious few. Or, if an actress is a foreigner, she may escape 'the envy of less happier lands,' and be encouraged as a luxury for the great-be wafted to us on a name, and take back with her our sighs and tears. Yet how frail is the tenure of fashion! Where is Madame Catalani now? Where does the siren's voice flutter in the sunshine of her smiles? It was some time since we had seen Mr. Kean's Shylock. Fourteen years ago we were desired to go and see a young actor from the country attempt the part at Drury-lane; and, as was expected, add another to the list of failures. When we got there, there were about fifty people in the pit, and there was that sense of previous damnation which a thin house inspires. When the new candidate came on, there was a lightness in his step, an airy buoyancy and self-possession different from the sullen, dogged, gaol-delivery look of the traditional Shylocks of the stage. A vague expectation was excited, and all went on well; but it was not till he came to the part, when leaning on his staff, he tells the tale of Jacob and his flock with the garrulous ease of old age and an animation of spirit, that seems borne back to the olden time, and to the privileged example in which he exults, that it was plain that a man of genius had lighted on the stage. To those who had the spirit and candour to hail the lucky omen, the recollection of that moment of startling, yet welcome surprise, will always be a proud and satisfactory one. We wished to see after a lapse of time and other changes, whether this first impression would still keep 'true touch,' and we find no difference. Besides the excellence of the impassioned parts of Mr. Kean's acting, there is a flexibility and indefiniteness of outline about it, like a figure with a landscape back-ground-he is in Venice with his money-bags, his daughter and his injuries, but his thoughts take wing to the East, his voice swells and deepens at the mention of his sacred tribe and ancient law, and he dwells delighted on any digression to distant times and places, as a relief to his vindictive and rooted purposes. Of all Mr. Kean's performances, we think this the most faultless and least mannered, always excepting his Othello, which is equally perfect and twenty times more powerful. Mr. Kean succeeded so well in this part in which he came out, that with the diffidence of the abilities of others so natural to us, it was concluded by the managers he could do nothing else, and he was kept in it so long that he had nearly failed in Richard, till the dying scene bore down all opposition by a withering spell, and as if a preternatural being had visibly taken possession of his form, and made the enthusiasm the greater from the uncertainty that had before prevailed. The Sir Giles Overreach stamped him with the players and the town, and Othello with the critics. He who has done a single thing that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever they think of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly coil, like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented! The Examiner.] FRENCH PLAYS [March 23, 1828. MONSIEUR PERLET is certainly a pearl of an actor. He does every part well, and every part varied from another. He is, however, a jewel set in lead: the rest of the company to which he belongs are but indifferent. He is exactly what a London star, engaged for a few nights to gratify the upturned eyes of wondering audiences,' is in a tattered troop of country-actors. Those who fancy that they see here a thorough sample of French acting, the elite of the capital of civilised society, are mistaken; and we perhaps should not undeceive them, but that we can assure them that they have a pleasure to come, something to look forward to, and something to look back upon, and which (we believe) can be found only at Paris. Oh! Paris, thou hast the Louvre, the garden of the Thuilleries, and the Theatre Français; Madame Pasta we share by turns with you, as the sun sheds its light on either world—the rest is barbarous and common. A friend of ours once received a letter from a friend of his, dated ROME, with three marks of admiration after it, which he answered by writing LONDON, with four marks of admiration after it: and why shouldn't he, since we had St. Paul's, the Cartoons, the Elgin Marbles, and the Bridges?' As to the three first, they were not ours; and as to the fourth, the reasoning puts me a little in mind of Sir William Curtis's, who remarked that it was very good of God, that wherever there was a great city, he had made a river by the side of it!' There was another proud distinction, which our patriotic friend did not enumerate, though it was a thumping make-weight in the scale, and might have claimed a fifth mark of admiration, which was, that he himself was there. This is the triumphant argument in every Englishman's imagination,-wherever he is, is the centre of gravity; whatever he calls his own, is the standard of excellence. It is our desire to shake off this feeling as much as possible that makes us frequent the theatre at the English Opera-house, and try (all we can) to leave our country and ourselves' at the door. Why in truth should an English Nobleman be convinced in himself and speak upon that conviction in his place in Parliament, that because he keeps a French cook, the French have no genius for anything but cookery? Or why, my dear Madam, should you have taken it in your head, that because you wear a French bonnet, there is nothing in Paris but milliners' girls who are no better than they should be? Nay, that is what you really imagine, however you may deny it--but be assured, good, gentle, honest, reflecting reader of either sex, who feel your own existence so solid that every thing else is a fable to it, or your own virtue so clear that everything else is a spot to it, that there are things out of England besides what are imported into it-that French women not only make caps and bonnets, but wear them with a peculiar grace; that they have eyes glancing from under them full of fire and discretion; that they do not make a false step at every turn, though they do not walk like Englishwomen, that is, as if their limbs were an incumbrance to them; that the Chamber of Deputies think your Lordship's speeches dry and tasteless, for want of a little French seasoning; that there are cities not built of bricks, faces not made of dough, a language that has a meaning though it is not ours, and virtue that is neither a statue nor a mask! For instance, we think goodmanners is one part of ethics, and we do wish en passant that our fine gentlemen at the play would not loll on their seats, whistle, and thrust their sticks nearly in your face to show their superiority to the vulgar; and that those of the other sex, who are admitted on their good behaviour could be prevailed on not to talk and laugh so loud, not to nod or wink, not to slap their acquaintance on the back, or shut the doors with such violence after them, to attract admirers and shew an independent spirit. Strange that the English notion of independence consists in giving offence to and displaying your contempt for others! They order these things better in France, where they consult decency of appearance at least, and Venus is a prude in public -not a hoyden or a bully! 'Our Cupid is a blackguard boy, That thrusts his link in every face." As we do not This brings us back to the French Theatre. approve every thing foreign or French, we are more bound to acknowledge and do justice to what we do like. Imprimis, we abhor French pictures. In the second place, we tolerate French tragedy. Thirdly, we adore French comedy. The characteristic of this in its best state, and as compared with our utmost efforts in the same line, 353 VOL. XI. : Z is, that it is equally perfect throughout; and as that great philosopher of idleness (Mr. Coleridge) once wisely and wittily observed, 'there is something in the idea of perfection exceedingly satisfactory to the mind of man.' It is not as with us at present (it was not always so -or is it the haze of time, the tints of youth that made the difference?) where the most we can expect is one or two actors of disproportioned excellence, and all the others merely to fill the stage; but there all are in their place, and all are first-rate. Oh! it is a fine thing to see one of Moliere's comedies acted (as they should be) at the Theatre Français, with the sense of every pregnant line fully understood and developed, with the passion and character delineated to the life, every situation painted, and every shade and difference of absurdity hit off and realised; and not only this, but the whole so managed, with such studious attention to the public and respect to the art, that not the least bit of costume is out of place, and (what is more important) that every part is filled by an actor or actress not only who comprehends and enters into the spirit of it, but who seems made for it in person, gesture and features, as if they had been cast in a dramatic mould, or kept in a glass-case for that purpose from the first representation to the present day. Thus the long, nasal speeches are delivered by an actor with the prominent, paste-board nose and arched eye-brows of the Oratory, and whose unusual height and shambling figure serve him as it were for a rostrum; the poetical dedicator in the Misanthrope has sparkling eyes and teeth, smiling delighted on his patron and himself; the confidante of Celimene, in the same piece, is slender, fragile, timid in appearance, a contrast to the firm precision and maturer enbon-point of Mademoiselle Mars; Orgon has a little, round, dimpled, credulous face, and easy contented corpulence; the Tartuffe has the sneaking sanctity of a monk and the grin of a monkey. Thus you have not only the poet's verse exactly expressed and recited; but you have, in addition, the natural history of the part, the drapery, the grouping. The age of Louis xiv. revives again in all its masqued splendour; the folding-doors are thrown open, and you see men and women playing the fool deliciously, 'new manners and the pomp of elder days,' court-airs, court-dresses, the strut, the shrug, the bow, the curtsey, the paint, the powder, the patches, the perfume, the laced ruffles, the diamond buckle, the hoop-petticoat. Happy time! Enviable time to think of! When vanity and folly expanded in full bloom, and were spread out ostentatiously like the figures in a gaudy tapestry, instead of being folded up and thrust into a corner by the hand of a cynic and austere philosophy; when personal appearance and amorous intrigue were all in all; when a marquis stalked the God of his own idolatry, and |