his task he would no longer be the complete and unequivocal organ of the dulness, prejudices, malice, and callous insensibility of his party. No argument tells with a minister of State like calling a man a Jacobin and a Reformer for the fortieth time: the sleek Divine chuckles at a dirty allusion for the fortieth time with unabated glee. Mr. Hook, among wits, might be called the parson's nose or perhaps the title of Mr. Vivacity Dull would suit him as well. What a dearth of invention, what a want of interest, what a fuss about nothing, what a dreary monotony, what a pert slipslop jargon runs through the whole series of the author's tales! But what a persevering, unabashed confidence, what a broad-shouldered self-complacency, what robust health, what unrelenting nerves he must possess to inflict them on his readers! Not one ray, not one line-but all the refuse of the Green-room, the locomotions of a booth at a fair, the humours of a Margate hoy, the grimace of a jack-pudding, the sentimentalities and hashed-up scandal of a lady's maid, the noise and hurry of a chaise and four, the ennui and vacancy of a return post-chaise! The smart improvisatori turns out the most wearisome of interminable writers. At a moment's warning he can supply something that is worth nothing, and in ten times the space he can spin out ten times the quantity of the same poor trash. Would the public read Sayings and Doings? Would Mr. Colburn print them? No, but they are known to be the work of the Editor of the John Bull, of that great and anonymous abstract of wit, taste, and patriotism, who, like a Ministerial trull, calls after you in the street, dubs Mr. Waithman Lord Waithman, cries Humbug whenever humanity is mentioned; invades the peace of private life, out of regard to religion and social order; cuts a throat out of good nature, and laughs at it; and claps his Majesty familiarly on the shoulder, as the best of Kings! Do you wonder at the face, the gravity, the impenetrable assurance required to do all this, and to do it not once, but once a-week? Read Sayings and Doings, and the wonder ceases; you see it is because he can do nothing else! He will feel obliged to us for this character: his patrons were beginning to forget his qualifications. The Examiner.] ACTORS AND THE PUBLIC WE once happened to be present, and indeed to ing conversation between a young lady and an pretty much of our own standing in such matters. [March 16, 1828. assist in the followelderly gentleman I believe, papa, grand-papa did not think so highly of Mr. Garrick as most people did?" 6 Why, my dear, your grand-papa was not one of those who liked to differ very openly with the world; but he had an opinion of his own, which he imparted only to a few particular friends. He really thought Mr. Garrick was a quack, a better sort of Barthelemyfair actor. He used to say (for he was a man that knew the world) 'that the real secret of Mr. Garrick's success was, that his friend Bate Dudley had puffed him into notice, as he afterwards did the Prince of Wales.' We on this observed, in our individual capacity, that at least the dispenser of popularity had been more successful in the one case than in the other. I believe, papa, you yourself were never a great admirer of Mrs. Siddons?' Why no, my dear, one does not like to say those things, but she always appeared to me one of the great impositions on the world. There was nothing in her, a mere tragedy-queen.'-' Pray, ma'am, have you read Sir Walter's last novel? Why no, I really cannot say I have. I have tried to get through one or two, but I find them so dry I have given up the attempt. I like "Sayings and Doings" much better. Pray, sir, can you tell me the name of the author? Mr. Theodore Hook.' Bless me, what a pretty name; I wish papa would invite him to dinner.'-Here we have the genealogy of modern taste. 'Fore gad, they were all in a story-three generations in succession thinking nothing of Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, and the author of Waverley,' and preferring Mr. Theodore Hook before the quintessence of truth and nature. And such is the opinion of nine-tenths of the world, if we could get at their real thoughts. The vulgar in their inmost souls admire nothing but the vulgar; the common-place admire nothing but the common-place; the superficial nothing but the superficial. How should it be otherwise? The rest is cant and affectation and as to those who know better and have pretensions themselves, they are actuated by envy and malice, or some preconceived theory of their own. Instead of a great actor, for instance, they are looking for a hat and feather, are disappointed at not finding what they fondly expect, and more disappointed still at coming in collision with a power that shocks all their previous sympathies, rules, and definitions. Let a great man fall into misfortune' (like Captain Macheath) and then you discover the real dispositions of the reading, seeing, believing, loving public towards their pretended idol. See how they set upon him the moment he is down, how they watch for the smallest slip, the first pretext to pick a quarrel with him, how slow they are to acknowledge worth, how they never forgive an error, how they trample upon and tear 'to tatters, to very rags,' the common frailties, how they overlook and malign the transcendant : 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. He does every MONSIEUR PERLET is certainly a pearl of an actor. 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 |