CHAPTER VII. - PARIS—THE THEATRES.

It is difficult for any person who has never quitted England to enter into the feelings which every one must experience when he first finds it in his power to examine those peculiarities of national manners, or national taste, in the people of other states, which have long been the subject of speculation in his own country, and on his imperfect knowledge of which, much perhaps of the estimate he has formed of the character of those nations may depend. The circumstance which perhaps, of all others connected with the people of France, is most likely to create this feeling of curiosity and interest, is the opportunity of attending the French theatres. In most countries, and even in some where dramatic representations possess much greater power over the minds of the audience, the theatre is comparatively of much less importance to a stranger in assisting him to judge of the character of the people; the observations which he may collect can seldom be of any great use in affording him means of understanding their manners and public character, and at the most, cannot inform him of those circumstances in the character of the people with which their happiness and prosperity are connected;—but the theatre at Paris is an object of the greatest interest to a stranger; every one knows how strikingly the character and dispositions of the French people are displayed at their theatres; and at the period when we were there, as every speech almost contained something which was eagerly turned into an allusion to the circumstances of their situation, and to the events which had so lately taken place, the interest which the theatres must at any time have excited, was greatly increased.

There was another object also, less temporary in its nature, which rendered frequent attendance at the theatre, one of the most useful and instructive occupations of our time. The construction and character of the French tragedies have been as generally questioned in other countries, as they are universally and enthusiastically admired in France; and with whatever feelings, whether of pleasure or fatigue, we might have read these celebrated compositions, we were all naturally most anxious to ascertain how far they were calculated for actual representation, and what effect these plays, which possess such influence over the French people, might produce on those who had been accustomed to dramatic writings of so very different a description.

The theatres present, at first view, a very favourable aspect of French character. The audience uniformly conduct themselves with propriety and decorum; they are always attentive to the piece represented, and shew themselves, in general very good judges of theatrical merit; and the entertainments which please their taste are certainly of a superior order to a great part of those which are popular in England. A great number of the performances which are loudly applauded by the pit and boxes of the London theatres, would be esteemed low and vulgar, even by the galleries at the Theatre Français. It must be added, likewise, that the morality of the plays which are in request, is very generally more strict than of favourite English plays; and often of a refined and sentimental turn, which would be little relished in England. The tragedies acted at the Theatre Français are generally modelled on the Greek; those of Racine and Voltaire are common. The comedies have seldom any low life or buffoonery, or vulgar ribaldry in them; The after pieces, and the ballets at the Academie de Musique, and at the Opera Comique, are often beautiful representations of rural innocence and enjoyments.

It appears at first difficult to reconcile this taste in theatrical entertainments with the well-known immorality of the Parisians; but the fact is, that as they are in the daily habit of speaking of virtues which they do not practise, so it never appears to enter their heads; that the sentiments which they delight in hearing at the theatres ought to regulate their conduct to one another. They applaud them only for their adaptation to the situation of the fictitious personages; whereas in England they are applauded, for speaking home to the business and bosoms of the audience.

The conduct and style of the French tragedies, in particular, appear to be very characteristic of a nation among whom noble and virtuous feelings are no sooner experienced than they are proclaimed to the world; and are there valued, rather for the selfish pleasure they produce, in the mind, than for their influence on conduct. The French will not admit, in their tragedies, the representation of all the variety of character and situation that can throw an air of truth and reality over dramatic fiction; they can admire such incidents and characters only, as accord with the sentiments and emotions which it is the peculiar province of tragedy to excite. They are not satisfied with the indication, in a few energetic words,—valuable only as an index to the state of the mind, and an earnest of the actions of the speaker,—of feelings too strong to find vent at the moment, in words capable of fully expressing them; they must have the full developement, the long detailed exposition of all the thoughts which crowd into the mind of the actor or sufferer, expanded, as it were, to prolong the enjoyment of those who are to sympathise with them, and expressed in select and appropriate terms, with the pomp and stateliness of heroic verse. An English tragedy is valued as a representation of life and character; a French tragedy as a display of eloquence and feeling: and the reason is, that in France eloquence and feeling are valued for their own sake, and in England they are valued for the sake of the corresponding character and conduct.

It is perhaps one of the strongest arguments in favour of the general plan of the English drama, and one of the best proofs that dramatic poetry ought to be judged by very different principles from those by which other kinds of poetry are criticised, that one of the principal merits of the French actors consists in hiding the chief peculiarities of their own dramatic school. The personages in a French tragedy are represented by the authors as it were a degree above human nature; but the actors study to present themselves before the audience as simple men and women: the speeches are generally such as appear to be delivered by persons who are superior to the overwhelming influence of strong passions, and who can calmly enter into an analysis of their own feelings; but the actors labour to give you the impression, that they are agitated by present, violent, and sudden emotions; the tragedies are composed with as much regularity as epic poems in heroic verse, but the best actors do all in their power, by varied intonation, by irregular pauses, and frequent bursts of passion, to conceal the rhymes, and break the uniformity of the measure.

The effect of the rhymes and regular versification, in the mouths of the inferior actors, who have not the art to conceal them, is, to an English ear at least, very unpleasing, and indeed almost destructive of theatrical illusion; and as a number of such actors must necessarily appear in every tragedy, it may be doubted whether a tragedy is ever acted throughout on the French stage in so pleasing a manner, at least to an English taste, as some of our English tragedies are at present in the London theatres—as Venice preserved, for example, is now acted at Covent Garden. If such be our superiority, however, it must be ascribed, not to the tragic genius of the people being greater, but to there being fewer difficulties to be overcome on the English stage than on the French.

We think it is pretty clear, likewise, that the style of the best English tragedies affords a better field for the display of genius in the actors, than that of the French. Where the sentiments of the characters introduced are fully expressed in their words—where their whole thoughts are detailed for the edification of the audience, however grand or touching these may be, it is obvious, that the actor who is to represent them is in trammels; the poet has done so much, that little remains for him; his art is confined to the display of emotions or passions, all the variations of which are set down for him, and which he is not permitted to alter. But when the expression of intense feeling is confined to few words, to broken sentences, and sudden transitions of thought, which let you, indeed, into the inmost recesses of the soul of the sufferer, but do not lay it open before you, it is permitted for the genius of the actor to co-operate with that of the poet in producing an effect, for which neither was singly competent. Those who have witnessed the representation of the heart-rendings of jealousy in Kean's Othello, or of the agonies of "love and sorrow joined" in Miss O'Neil's Belvidera, will, we are persuaded, acknowledge the truth of this observation.

The ideas which we had formed of the French stage, from reading their tragedies, had prepared us to expect, in their principal actor, a figure, countenance, and manner, resembling those of Kemble, fitted to give full effect to the declamations in which they abound, and to the representation of characters of heroic virtue, elevated above the influence of earthly passions. The appearance of Talma is very different from this, and certainly has by no means the uniform dignity and majestic elevation of Kemble.

Difficult as it must always be to convey, by any general description, a distinct or adequate notion of the excellence of any actor, there are some circumstances which it is common to mention, and some expressions which must be understood wherever the theatre is an object of interest, and the power of acting appreciated. Talma appears to us to unite more of the advantages of figure, and countenance, and voice, than any actor that we have ever seen: it is not that his person is large and graceful, or even well proportioned; on the contrary, he is rather a short man, and is certainly not without defects in the shape of his limbs. But these disadvantages are wholly overlooked in admiration of his dignified and imposing carriage—of his majestic head—and of his full and finely-proportioned chest, which expresses so nobly the resolution, and manliness, and independence of the human character.

There is one circumstance in which Talma has every perfection which it is possible to conceive—in the power, and richness, and beauty of his voice. It is one of those commanding and pathetic voices which can never, at any distance of time, be forgotten by any one who has once heard it: every variety of tone and expression of which the human voice is capable, is perfectly at his command, and succeed each other with a rapidity and power which it is not possible to conceive. It makes its way to the heart the instant it is heard, and at the moment he begins to speak, you feel not only your attention fixed, and your admiration excited, but the mind wholly subdued by its resistless influence, and disposed to enter at once into every emotion which he may wish to produce. The beauty and feeling of his under tones, the affection, tenderness, and pity which they so exquisitely express, are so perfect, that no one could foresee in such perfections, the fierce, hurried, and overhearing tones of Nero—the voice of deep and exhausting suffering, which in Hamlet shews so profound an impression of the misery he had undergone, and of the hopelessness of the situation in which he is placed,—or still more the shriek of agony in Orestes, when he finds the horrors of madness again assailing him, and when, in that utter prostration of soul which the belief of inevitable and merciless destiny alone could produce in his mind, he abandons himself in dark despair to the misery which seems to close around him for ever.

We have heard several English people describe Talma's countenance, as by no means powerful enough for a great actor; it appeared to us, that in no one respect was he so decidedly superior to any actor on the English stage, as in the truth and variety of expression which it displays. There is one observation indeed regarding the acting of Talma, which often suggested itself, and which may, in some degree, prepare us to expect, that English people in general could not be much struck with the expression of his countenance. On the English stage, it appears commonly to be the object of the actors, to give to every sentiment the whole effect of which the words of the part will admit, as fully as if that sentiment were the only one which could occupy the mind of the character at the time; and any person who will attend to the manner in which Macbeth and Hamlet are performed, even by that great actor whose genius has secured at once the pre-eminence which the reputation of Garrick had left so long uncontested, may observe, that many of the parts, which are applauded as the strongest proofs of the abilities of the actor, consist in the expression given to sentiments, undoubtedly of subordinate importance in the situation of these characters, and which probably could never occupy so exclusively the mind of any one really placed in the circumstances represented in the play, and under the influence of the feelings which such circumstances are calculated to produce. In the character of Hamlet, in particular, there are several passages, in which it is the custom to express minor and passing sentiments with a keenness little suitable to the profound grief in which Hamlet ought to be absorbed at the commencement of the play, and which can be natural only when the mind is free from other more powerful emotions. It appears to us, that the consistency of character is much more judiciously and naturally preserved in the acting of Talma; that he is more careful to maintain invariably that unity of expression which ought to be given to the character, and is more uniformly under the influence of those predominating feelings, which the circumstances of the situation in which the part has placed him seem fitted to excite. Under this impression apparently of the object which an actor ought to keep in view, Talma omits many opportunities, which would be eagerly employed on the English stage, to display the power of the actor, though the natural consistency of character might be violated; and never seems to think it proper to express, on all occasions, every sentiment with that effect which should be given to it, only when it becomes the predominant feeling of the moment. Much, no doubt, is lost for stage effect by this notion of acting. Many opportunities are passed over, which might have been employed to shew the manner in which the actor can represent a variety of feelings, which the language of the play may seem to admit; and we lose much of the art and skill of acting, when the talents of the actor are limited to the display of such sentiments only as accord with the simple and decided expression of character which he is anxious to maintain.

But on the other hand, the impression which this representation of character makes upon the mind, is on the whole much more profound, and the interest which the spectator takes in the circumstances in which the character is placed, is much greater when the actor is so wholly under the influence of the feelings which the situation of the part ought to excite, as never to betray any emotion which can weaken that general effect which this situation would naturally produce. To those, therefore, accustomed to the greater variety of expression which the practice of the English stage renders necessary in the countenance of every actor, and to the strong and often exaggerated manner in which common sentiments and ordinary feelings are represented, there may perhaps appear some want of expression in Talma's countenance; but no one can attend fully to any of the more interesting characters which he performs, without feeling an impression produced by the power and intelligence of his countenance, which no length of time will ever wholly efface. It is not the expression of his countenance at any particular moment which fixes itself on the mind, or the force with which accidental feelings are represented; but that permanent and powerful expression which suits the character he has to sustain, and never for an instant permits you to forget the circumstances, of whatever kind, in which he is placed; and those who have seen him in any of the greater parts on the French stage, can never forget that unrivalled power of expressing deep grief, of which nothing in any English actor at present on the stage can afford any idea.

At the same time it must be admitted, that Talma has arrived at that time of life, when the hand of age has impaired, in some degree, the vigour and expression of the human frame, and when his countenance has lost much of that variety and play of expression which belongs to the period of youth alone; it has lost much of the warmth and keenness of youthful feeling, and probably might fail in expressing that openness, and gaiety, and enthusiasm, which time has so great a tendency to diminish. But these qualities are not often required in the parts which Talma has to perform in the French plays; and if his countenance has lost some of the perfections of earlier years, it has, on the other hand, gained much from the seriousness and dignity of age. If, for instance, he does not express so well the ardour—the hope—the triumph of youthful love, there is yet something irresistibly affecting in the earnestness with which he expresses that passion; something which adds most deeply to the interest which its expression is calculated to excite, by reminding one of the instability of human enjoyment, and of the many misfortunes which the course of life may bring with it to destroy the visions of inexperienced affection. We have already mentioned, that in the expression of profound emotion and deep suffering, the countenance of Talma is altogether admirable; and we doubt whether there is any thing is this respect more true and perfect, even in the performance of that great actress who has, in the present day, united every perfection of grace, and beauty, and genuine feeling which the stage has ever exhibited. But the countenance of Talma, in scenes of distress, expresses not merely suffering, but if possible, something more, which we have never seen in any other actor. He alone possesses the power of expressing that impatience under suffering—that restless, constant wish for relief, which produces so strong an impression of the truth and reality of the affliction with which you are called upon to sympathise.

His attitudes and action are uncommonly striking, seldom in the exaggeration of the French stage, and never running into that immoderate expression of passion in which dignity of character is necessarily sacrificed. Talma appears to understand the use and management of action better than any actor on the French stage; and though at times some prominent faults, inseparable, perhaps, from the character of the plays in which he is compelled to perform, may be observable; yet, in general, his action appears to possess a power and expression beyond what is attempted by any actor on the English stage.

Nothing can be conceived apparently so inconsistent with the character of the French plays, as the manner in which they are delivered. The harangues, which are tedious to many when read, might probably be very uninteresting to all when performed, if delivered with that unbending and unimpassioned declamation, which seems to suit "their stately march and long resounding lines:" to a French audience, in particular, such representations would be intolerable, and the actors, accordingly, have been led to perform them with a degree of energy and passion which they do not appear intended to admit, but which was necessary, perhaps, to awaken those emotions which it must be more or less the object of theatrical representations to excite, wherever they are to be performed to all classes of mankind. As might have been foreseen, the French actors, compelled to counterfeit a degree of warmth and feeling which was not suggested by the sentiments they utter, or the language they employ, have fallen very naturally into the error of making the expression of passion immoderately vehement; and thus, when not guided by the language they are to use, have become not only indiscriminate in the introduction of violent emotion, but often run into a degree of warmth, totally destructive of every feeling of propriety and dignity.

The striking circumstance in Talma's acting is, that he alone seems to know how to act the French plays with all the feeling and interest which can be necessary to produce effect; and at the same time, to avoid that exaggerated representation of passion which represses the very emotions it is intended to excite. The means by which the genius of this great actor has accomplished so important an effect, and overcome the difficulties which seem insuperable to the rest of his countrymen, afford the best illustration that can be given of the talents and imagination he displays. Talma appears to have thought, and most justly, that the only manner in which the French tragedies can approach and interest the heart, is by the impression which the character and the moral tendency of the play may, upon the whole, be able to produce, not by the force or pathos which can be thrown into any detached speeches, or by the effect with which individual parts of the tragedy may be given. The impression which might be created by the delivery of any particular passage, or by the expression of any occasional sentiment, he seems at all times to consider as of subordinate importance to the preservation of that permanent character, whether of intense and overpowering suffering, or wild desperation, by which he thinks the feelings of the spectators may be most deeply and heartily interested. Much as we admire the excellencies of the English stage, and none we are persuaded can have an opportunity of comparing it with the acting of the French theatre, without being more sensible of its perfections, we think it may yet be observed, that many important objects are sacrificed to the desire of producing continual emotion,—to the practice of making every sentiment and every word tell upon the audience, with an effect which could not be greater, if that sentiment were the whole object of the tragedy. We admit, most willingly, the talent and feeling which are often so beautifully displayed in the course of the inferior scenes; and the impression, which is so frequently produced over the "whole assembled multitude," by the delivery of a single passage, of no importance in itself, attests sufficiently the merits of the actors who can thus wield at will the passions of the spectators. What we are anxious to observe is, that the general impression, from the play must be less profound, when the mind is thus distracted by a variety of powerful feelings succeeding each other so rapidly, and when the interest, which would naturally increase of itself as the performance proceeds, in the history and moral tendency of the tragedy, is thus broken, as it were, by the influence of so many transient passions. It is very singular to observe the difference, in this respect, between the character of an English and a Parisian audience: To the former, every thing, as it passes, must be given with the greatest effect; no opportunity can safely be omitted, by any one attentive to the public opinion, of displaying the power with which each sentiment may be expressed; and there is no common feeling among the spectators, of the subserviency of all the different parts of the tragedy to one great import, or that it is only in the more important scenes, where the events of the story are coming to a close, that great talent is to be exerted, or profound emotion excited. The feelings of a French audience, as might be expected, are such as better suit the character of the plays which have been so long addressed to them; they like to have their interest awakened, and their feelings excited, only as the story proceeds, and the deeper scenes of the tragedy begin to open upon them; and it is to the general impression which the progress and close of the play leave upon the mind, that they look, as to the criterion of the excellence of the manner, in which that play has been performed. Nothing, therefore, can be apparently quieter than the commencement of a French tragedy; and a person unacquainted with the language, would be disposed to conclude what was passing before him as uninteresting in the highest degree, if he did not observe the most profound and eager attention to prevail in those to whom it is addressed. It would be a subject of very curious and instructive speculation, to examine the circumstances, in the situation and intelligence of the people in both countries, which have occasioned this remarkable difference in their feelings, in moments when the influence of prejudice, or the effect of peculiar character, generally gives way, and when the genuine sentiments of mankind, as invariably happens when the different ranks of men are assembled indiscriminately together, assume their natural empire over the human heart. It might unfold some interesting conclusions both as to the great object of the drama, and the genuine style of dramatic representation; and might place, in a more important point of view than is within the consideration, perhaps, of many who so hastily decide on the superiority of the English stage, the excellence they admire.

Much as the French tragedies are despised in this country, and sensible as we are of many essential defects which belong to them, when considered as the means of exciting popular feeling, or of applying to the duties of common life, we must yet state the very great and lasting impression which many of them left on our minds, and which, we can truly say, was never equalled by any effect produced by the most successful efforts of the English stage. At our own theatres, we have been often more deeply affected during the performance of the play,—we have often admired, much more, the grace, or feeling, or grandeur of the acting we witnessed, and been more highly delighted with the species of talent which was displayed; but yet, we must acknowledge, that the impression that all this left upon the mind, was not such as has been produced by the powers of Talma in the French tragedies. We had many occasions, however, to see that this effect was to be attributed chiefly to the genius of this great actor, and that it was only when entrusted to him, that the influence of these plays was so deeply felt.

The great difference, then, between the acting of Talma, and of the other actors on the French stage, is his constant attention to the means by which the impression, which the general tendency of the play will produce, may be increased. Whatever may be the character which the nature of the tragedy seems to require, his whole powers are employed to pursue that character inviolably during the progress of the play, and to add to the effect it is fitted to produce: The character of profound grief, for instance, is so completely sustained, that the very act of speaking seems an exertion too great for a mind which suffering has nearly exhausted, and where, in consequence, the pomp and energy of declamation, and many of the most natural aids by which passion is wont to express itself, are all disregarded in the intensity of mental agony. It is not uncommon, accordingly, to see Talma perform parts of a tragedy in a manner which might seem tame and unmeaning to one who had not been present at the preceding parts, but which is most interesting to those who have seen the character which he adopts from the first, and feel the propriety and effect of the manner in which that character is sustained. Some of the most striking effects we have ever seen produced in any acting, are in those scenes, in many plays in which he performs, in which, from his powerful and affecting personation of character, his exhausted mind seems unable to enter into any events which are not either to relieve his sufferings, or terminate an existence which appears beset with such hopeless misery. Other actors may have succeeded in expressing as strongly the influence of present suffering, or the despair of intense grief. It is Talma alone who knows how to express, what is so much more grand, the effects of long suffering; to remind you of the misery he has endured by the spectacle of an exhausted frame and broken spirit; and by exhibiting the overwhelming consequence of those sufferings which the poet has not dared to describe, nor the actor ventured to represent to interest the mind far more profoundly than any representation of present passion could possibly effect. The influence of the exertions of other actors is limited to the effects of the emotions they represent, and of the suffering they exhibit: the genius of Talma has imitated the efforts of ancient Greece in her matchless sculpture, and, in every situation which put it within his power, chosen, as the proper field for the display of the actor's powers, not the mere representation of excess in suffering, but that moment of greater interest, when the struggle of nature is past, and the mind has sunk under the pressure of affliction, which no fortitude could sustain, and which no ray of hope had cheered.

Every one knows the peculiar manner in which, in general, the verses of the French tragedy are repeated, and the delight which the French people take in the uniform and balanced modulation of voice with which they are accompanied. In an ordinary actor, this peculiar tone is often, to many foreigners, extremely fatiguing, but it is defended in France, as securing a pleasure in some degree independent of the merits of the actor, and defending the audience from the harshness of tone, and extravagancies of accent, to which otherwise, in bad actors, they would be exposed; and certainly no one can listen, in the National Theatre, to the beautiful and splendid declamations of the most celebrated compositions in French literature, delivered in the manner which has been selected as best adapted to the character of the plays and the taste of the people, with any feeling of indifference. In the skilful hands of Talma, who preserves the beauty of the poetry nearly unimpaired in the very abandon of feeling, the French verse acquires beauties which it never before could boast, and loses all that is harsh or painful in the uniformity of its structure, or the monotony of artificial taste. The description which Le Baron de Grimm has given of Le Kain may be well applied to Talma. "Un talent plus precieux sans doute et qu'il avait porté au plus haut degré c'etait celui de faire sentir tout le charme des beaux vers sans nuire jamais a la verité de l'expression. En dechirant le cœur, il enchantait toujours l'oreille, sa voix pénétrait jusqu'au fond de l'ame, et l'impression qu'elle y faisait, semblable a celle du burin, y laissait des traces et longs souvenirs."

The tragedy of Hamlet, in which we saw Talma perform for the first time, is one which must be interesting to every person who has any acquaintance with French literature; and it will not probably be considered as any great digression in a description of Talma's excellencies as an actor, to add some further remarks concerning that celebrated play in which his powers are perhaps most strikingly displayed, and which is one of the greatest compositions undoubtedly of the French theatre. It can hardly be called a translation, as many material alterations were made in the story of the play; and though the general purport of the principal speeches has been sometimes preserved, the language and sentiments are generally extremely different. The character of Shakespeare's Hamlet was wholly unsuited to the taste of a French audience. What is the great attraction in that mysterious being to the feelings of the English people, the strange, wild, and metaphysical ideas which his art or his madness seems to take such pleasure in starting, and the uncertainty in which Shakespeare has left the reader with regard to Hamlet's real situation, would not perhaps have been understood—certainly not admired, by those who were accustomed to consider the works of Racine and Voltaire as the models of dramatic composition. In the play of Ducis, accordingly, Hamlet thinks, talks, and acts pretty much as any other human being would do, who should be compelled to speak only in the verse of the French tragedy, which necessarily excludes, in a great degree, any great incoherence or flightiness of sentiment. In some respects, however, the French Hamlet, if a less poetical personage, is nevertheless a more interesting one, and better adapted to excite those feelings which are most within the command of the actor's genius. M. Ducis has represented him as more doubtful of the reality of the vision which haunted him, or at least of the authority which had commissioned it for such dreadful communications; and this alteration, so important in the hands of Talma, was required on account of other changes which had been made in the story of the play. The paramour of the Queen is not Hamlet's uncle, nor had the Queen either married the murderer, or discovered her criminal connexion with him. Hamlet, therefore, has not, in the incestuous marriage of his mother, that strong confirmation of the ghost's communication, which, in Shakespeare, led him to suspect foul play even before he sees his father's spirit. In the French play, therefore, Hamlet is placed in one of the most dreadful situations in which the genius of poetry can imagine a human being: Haunted by a spirit, which assumes such mastery over his mind, that he cannot dispel the fearful impression it has made, or disregard the communication it so often repeats, while his attachment to his mother, in whom he reveres the parent he has lost, makes him question the truth of crimes which are thus laid to her charge, and causes him to look upon this terrific spectre as the punishment of unknown crime, and the visitation of an offended Deity. Ducis has most judiciously and most poetically represented Hamlet, in the despair which his sufferings produce, as driven to the belief of an over-ruling destiny, disposing of the fate of its unhappy victims by the most arbitrary and revolting arrangement, and visiting upon some, with vindictive fury, the whole crimes of the age in which they live. There is in this introduction of ancient superstition, something which throws a mysterious veil round the destiny of Hamlet, that irresistibly engrosses the imagination, and which must be doubly interesting in that country where the horrors of the revolution have ended in producing a very prevalent, though vague belief, in the influence of fatality upon human character and human actions, among those who pretend to ridicule, as unmanly prejudice and childish delusion, the religion of modern Europe.

The struggle, accordingly, that appears to take place in Hamlet's mind is most striking; and when at last he yields to the authority and the commands of the spirit, which exercises such tyranny over his mind, it does not seem the result of any farther evidence of the guilt which he is enjoined to revenge, but as the triumph of superstition over the strength of his reason. He had long resisted the influence of that visionary being, which announced itself as his father's injured spirit, and in assuming that sacred form, had urged him to destroy the only parent whom fate had left; but the struggle had brought him to the brink of the grave, and shaken the empire of reason; and when at last he abandons himself to the guidance of a power which his firmer nature had long resisted, the impression of the spectator is, that his mind has yielded in the struggle, and that, in the desperate hope of obtaining relief from present wretchedness, he is about to commit the most horrible crimes, by obeying the suggestions of a spirit, which he more than suspects to be employed only to tempt him on to perdition. No description can possibly do justice to the manner in which this situation of Hamlet is represented by Talma; indeed, on reading over the play some time afterwards, it was very evident that the powers of the actor had invested the character with much of the grandeur and terror which seemed to belong to it, and that the imagination of the French poet, which rises into excellence, even when compared with the productions of that great master of the passions whom he has not submitted to copy, has been surpassed by the fancy of the actor for whom he wrote. The Hamlet of Talma is probably productive of more profound emotion, than any representation of character on any stage ever excited.

One other alteration ought to be mentioned, as it renders the circumstances of Hamlet's situation still more distressing, and affords Talma an opportunity of displaying the effects of one of the gentler passions of human nature, when its influence seemed irreconcileable with the stern and fearful duties which fate had assigned to him. The Ophelia of the French play, so unlike that beautiful and innocent being who alone seems to connect the Hamlet of Shakespeare with the feelings and nature of ordinary men, has been made the daughter of the man for whose sake the king has been poisoned, and was engaged to marry Hamlet at that happier period when he was the ornament of his father's court, and the hope of his father's subjects. In the first part of the play, though no hint of the terrible revenge which he was to execute on her father has escaped, the looks and anxiety of Talma discover to her that her fate is in some degree connected with the emotions which so visibly oppress him, and she makes him at last confess the insurmountable barrier which separates them for ever. Nothing can be greater than the acting of Talma during this difficult scene, in which he has to resist the entreaties of the woman whom he loves, when imploring for the life of her father, and yet so overcome with his affection, as hardly to have strength left to adhere to his dreadful purpose.

The feelings of a French audience do not permit the spirit of Hamlet's father to appear on the stage: "L'apparition se passe, (says Madame de Stael)[3], en entier dans la physionomie de Talma, et certes elle n'en est pas ainsi moins effrayante. Quand, au milieu d'un entretien calme et melancolique, tout a coup il aperçoit le spectre, on suit tout; ses mouvemens dans les yeux qui le contemplent, et l'on ne peut douter de la presence du fantome quand un tel regard l'atteste." The remark is perfectly just, nothing can be imagined more calculated to dispel at once the effect which the countenance of a great actor, in such circumstances, would naturally produce, than bringing any one on the stage to personate the ghost; and whoever has seen Talma in this part, will acknowledge that the mind is not disposed to doubt, for an instant, the existence of that form which no eye but his has seen, and of that voice which no ear but his has heard. We regretted much, while witnessing the astonishing powers which Talma displayed in this very difficult part of the play, that it was impossible to see his genius employed in giving effect to the character of Aristodemo, (in the Italian tragedy of that name by Monti), to which his talents alone could do justice, and which, perhaps, affords more room for the display of the actor's powers, than any other play with which we are acquainted.

But the soliloquy on death is the part in which the astonishing excellence and genius of Talma are most strikingly displayed. Whatever difficulty there may often be to determine the particular manner in which scenes, with other characters, ought to be performed, there is no difference of opinion as to the manner in which soliloquies ought in general to be delivered. How comes it, then, that these are the very parts in which all feel that the powers of the actors are so much tried, and in which, for the most part, they principally fail? No one can have paid any attention to the English stage, without being struck with the circumstance, that while there may be much to praise in the performance of the other parts, many of the best actors uniformly fail in soliloquies; and that it is only of late, since the reputation of the English stage, has been so splendidly revived, that we have seen these difficult and interesting parts properly performed. It is in this circumstance, more than any other, in which the talents of Talma are most remarkably displayed, because he is peculiarly fitted, by his complete personation of character, and the deep interest which he seems himself to take in the part he is sustaining, to excel in performing what chiefly requires such interest. He is, at all times, so fully impressed with the feelings, which, under such circumstances, must have been really felt, that one is uniformly struck with the truth and propriety of every thing he does; and of course, in soliloquies, which must be perfect, when the actor appears to be seriously and deeply interested in the subjects on which he is meditating, Talma invariably succeeds. In this soliloquy in Hamlet, he is completely absorbed in the awful importance of the great question which occupies his attention, and nothing indicates the least consciousness of the multitude which surrounds him, or even that he is giving utterance to the mighty thoughts which crowd upon his mind. "Talma ne faisoit pas un geste, quelquefois seulement il remuoit la tête pour questioner la terre et le ciel sur ce que c'est que la mort! Immobile, la dignité de la meditation absorboit tout son etre."—De l'Allemagne, 1. c. We could wish to avoid any attempt to describe the acting of Talma in those passages which the eloquence of M. de Stael has rendered familiar throughout Europe; yet we feel that this account of the tragedy of Hamlet would be imperfect, if we did not allude to that very interesting scene, which corresponds, in the history of the play, to the closet scene in Shakespeare. Talma appears with the urn which contains the ashes of his father, and whose injured spirit he seems to consult, to obtain more proof of the guilt which he is to revenge, or in the hope that the affections of human nature may yet survive the horrors of the tomb, and that the duty of the son will not be tried in the blood of the parent who gave him birth. But no voice is heard to alter the sentence which he is doomed to execute; and he is still compelled to prepare himself to meet with sternness his guilty mother. After charging her, with the utmost tenderness and solemnity, with the knowledge of her husband's murder, he places the urn in her hands, and requires her to swear her innocence over the sacred ashes which it contains. At first, the consciousness that Hamlet could only suspect her crime, gives her resolution to commence the oath with firmness; and Talma, with an expression of countenance which cannot be described, awaits, in triumph and joy, the confirmation of her innocence,—and seems to call upon the spirit which had haunted him, to behold the solemn scene which proves the falsehood of its mission. But the very tenderness which he shews destroys the resolution of his mother, and she hesitates in the oath she had begun to pronounce. His feelings are at once changed,—the paleness of horror, and fury of revenge, are marked in his countenance, and his hands grasp the steel which is to punish her guilt: But the agony of his mother again overpowers him, at the moment he is about to strike; he appeals for mercy to the shade of his father, in a voice, in which, as M. de Stael has truly said, all the feelings of human nature seem at once to burst from his heart, and, in an attitude humbled by the view of his mother's guilt and wretchedness, he awaits the confession she seems ready to make: and when she sinks, overcome by the remorse and agony which she feels, he remembers only that she is his mother; the affection which had been long repressed again returns, and he throws himself on his knees, to assure her of the mercy of Heaven. We do not wish to be thought so presumptuous as to compare the talents of the French author with the genius of Shakespeare, but we must be allowed to say, that we think this scene better managed for dramatic effect: and certainly no part of Hamlet, on the English stage, ever produced the same impression, or affected us so deeply. We are well aware, however, how very different the scene would have appeared in the hands of any other actors than Talma and Madle Duchesnois, and that a very great part of the merit which the play seemed to possess, might be more justly attributed to the talents which they displayed. At the conclusion of this great tragedy, which has become so popular in France, and in which the genius of Talma is so powerfully exhibited, the applause was universal; and after some little time, to our surprise, instead of diminishing, became much louder; and presently a cry of Talma burst out from the whole house. In a few minutes the curtain drew up, and discovered Talma waiting to receive the applause with which they honoured him, and to express his sense of the distinction paid to him.

The part of Orestes in Andromaque, is another character in which the acting of Talma is seen to much advantage: and to a foreigner, it is peculiarly interesting, as it displays, more than any other almost, that uncommon power of recitation which distinguishes his acting from the tame and monotonous declamation of the ordinary actors; and which gives to the splendid language, and elevated sentiments of the French tragedies, an effect which cannot easily be understood by any one who has never seen them well performed. The part is one which is remarkably popular at present in Paris, as there is something in the history of that fabulous being, who has been represented as the victim of a capricious and arbitrary Providence, and exposed during his whole life to the most unmerited and horrible torments, which seems greatly to interest the French people; and Talma has thus been led to bestow upon the character a degree of reflection and preparation, which the parts in a French tragedy do not in general require. There is a passage which occurs in the first scene, which exhibits very strikingly the judgment and genuine feeling which uniformly marks his acting. After mentioning what had happened to him after his disappointment, with regard to Hermione, and his separation from Pylades, he says, that he had hastened to the great assembly of the Greeks, which the common interest of Greece had called together, in the hope, that the ardour, the activity, and the love of glory which had distinguished the period of youth, might revive with the animating scene which was again presented to his mind.

"En ce calme trompeur J'arrivai dans la Grece
Et Je trouvois d'abord ces princes rassemblès,
Qu'un peril assez grand sembloit avoir troublès.
J'y courus. Je pensai que la guerre et la gloire
De soins plus importants remplissoit ma memoire
Que mes sens reprenant leur premiere vigueur
L'amour acheveroit de sortir de mon cœur.
Mais admire avec mois le sort, dont la pursuite
Me fait courir alors au piege que j'evite."

There is a similar passage in Othello, in which, when the passion of jealousy had seized upon his mind, the Moor laments the degradation to which he had fallen, when all the objects of his former ambition ceased to interest his imagination, or animate his exertions. In enumerating the occupations which formed the pomp and glorious circumstance of war, but for which the misery of his situation had completely unmanned him, the actors who have attempted this character, fire with the description of the arms which he now abandons, and of the scenes in which his renown had been acquired. In this analogous passage, Talma repeats these scenes with much greater propriety and effect. He appeared overwhelmed by a deep sense of the degradation to which a foolish and unmanly attachment had reduced him; no gesture or tone of voice, expressive of the slightest animation, escaped him, when he described the objects of his youthful ambition; every thing denoted the shame and regret of a man who felt that his glory and his occupation were gone, and who no longer dared to look up with pride to the remembrance of those better days, when his valour and his resolution were the admiration of Greece.

The scene between Orestes and Hermione on their first meeting, is one in which Talma displays very great power: with his heart full of the passion from which he had suffered so much, he begins the declaration of his constancy in the most ardent and impressive manner, and for a time seems to flatter himself, that resentment at the neglect which she had met with from Pyrrhus might have awakened some affection for himself in the breast of Hermione. At first she is anxious to secure Orestes in case that Pyrrhus should ultimately slight her, and is at pains to confirm the hope which she perceives that this passion had created: But when he urges her to take the opportunity which how offered itself, of leaving a court where she appeared to be detained only to witness the marriage of her rival, she betrays at once the state of her mind:—

"Mais, seigneur, cependant s'il epouse Andromaque.
Oreste. Hé, madame.
Her. Songez quelle honte pour nous,
Si d'une Phrygienne il devenoit lepoux.
Oreste. Et vous le haissez!"—&c.

The indignant and bitter irony with which Talma delivers this speech, when he finds that resentment at Pyrrhus, and not affection for himself, has made her thus anxious to rivet the chains which her former cruelty had hardly weakened, is most striking, and he seems at once to regain the independence which he had lost.

There is another passage of very peculiar interest, which we hope it will not be prolonging these remarks too far to quote, as affording a very striking instance of the effect which the powers of Talma are able to produce, under almost any circumstances. When Pyrrhus, at one part of the play, consents to surrender Astyanax, and by this rupture with Andromache, resolves to marry Hermione, Orestes is thrown at once into the utmost despair by this sudden change of plans, and by this disappointment of his hopes. When he again appears with Pylades, he threatens to take the most violent measures, to interrupt this marriage, and to carry off Hermione by force from the court where she was detained. His friend naturally feels for the wound which his fame must suffer from such an outrage, and the dishonour which it would bring upon a name rendered sacred throughout Greece, from the unmerited misfortunes which he had sustained. "Voila donc le succès qu'aura votre ambassade. Oreste ravisseur." But such considerations are of no avail in the intemperance of his present feelings; and Orestes, after alluding to the injury of a second rejection by Hermione, proceeds to another motive, which urged him to any means, however violent to secure his object, and which most powerfully interests the imagination. Every one knows the supposed history of that mysterious character, whose destiny seemed to have placed him at the disposal of some unrelenting enemy of the human race, and who had suffered every misfortune which could oppress human nature.

"——Mais, s'il faut ne te rien deguiser
Mon innocence enfin commence a me peser,
Je ne sais, de tout tems, quelle injuste puissence
Laisse le crime en paix, et poursuit l'innocence,
De quelque part sur moi que je trouve les yeux,
Je ne vois que malheurs qui condamnent lea Dieux,
Meritons leur courroux, justifions leur haine,
Et que le fruit du crime en précéde la peine."

It is a remark of Seneca, that the most sublime spectacle in nature is the view of a great man struggling against misfortune, and such a character has ever been considered as the most appropriate subject for dramatic representation. The extreme difficulty of succeeding, in the very important passage which I have quoted, is obviously because the very reverse of such a spectacle is now presented to the mind,—when Orestes is made to abandon that distinction in his fate which alone gave him any peculiar hold over the feelings of the spectators, and because the actor must continue to engage, even more deeply than before, their interest and their pity, at the very time when the sentiments he utters must necessarily lower the dignity of the character he sustains, and diminish the compassion he had previously awakened. How, then, is that ascendency over the mind, which the singular destiny of Orestes naturally acquires, to be preserved, when he no longer is to be regarded as the innocent sufferer who claims our interest, and when he is content to descend to the level of ordinary men? In this very difficult passage Talma is eminently successful; no vehemence of manner accompanies the desperate resolution he expresses, the recollection of the misery he has suffered, and the dread of the greater misfortunes which his present intentions must bring upon him, seem wholly to overpower him, and his countenance, marked with the utmost dejection and wretchedness, appears still to appeal for mercy to the power which persecutes him. Everything in his appearance and voice conveys the impression of a person overwhelmed with misfortunes, and hurried on, by an impulse he cannot controul, into greater calamities, and more complicated misery. The very sentiment which he avows, seems to proceed from the over-ruling influence of a destiny which he has in vain attempted to resist, and to be only another proof of the unceasing persecution to which he is exposed; and though he no longer commands admiration, or deserves esteem, he becomes more than ever the object of the deepest commiseration. Talma appears to attach much importance to the impression which this passage may produce, as much of the view which he exhibits of the character of Orestes seems intended to assist its effect; and we certainly consider it as the greatest and most successful effort of genius, which we have ever seen displayed upon any stage. After witnessing this representation of the character of Orestes at this melancholy period of his life, it was with no ordinary interest that we shortly after saw Talma perform the part of Orestes in Iphigénie en Tauride, a play which represents very beautifully the only event in his life, which ever seemed likely to secure his happiness, the discovery of his sister; and we shall never forget the beautiful expression of Talma's countenance, and the delightful tones of his voice, when he described to his sister and his friend, the emotions which the feeling of happiness so new to him had created, and the hopes of future exertion and honour, which he now felt himself able to entertain.

The last scene of this interesting tragedy is the most celebrated and most admired part in the range of Talma's characters, and undoubtedly it is impossible to find any acting more admirable or more affecting: After the death of Pyrrhus, he rushes upon the stage to inform Hermione that he had obeyed her dreadful commission, and to receive the reward of such a proof of his attachment; the horror of the crime which he had committed is sunk in his confidence of the claim he has now acquired to her gratitude, and he triumphantly relates the circumstances of the scene which had passed, as giving him such undeniable titles to the reward which had been promised to his firmness.—Madame de Stael has mentioned the effect he gives to the short and feeble reply which he makes, when Hermione accuses him of cruelty, and throws all the guilt of the murder on himself;—but it is in the subsequent part that he appears so great: After Hermione leaves him, and he recovers in some degree of the stupor which such an unexpected attack had produced, he repeats, in a hurried manner, the circumstances of his situation, and dwells on the perfidy of Hermione; but when he finds no palliation for his crime, and sees how completely he has been degraded by his unmanly weakness, the whole enormity of his guilt comes full upon his mind, and he acquires even dignity in the opinion of the beholder, from the solemn and emphatic manner in which he curses the folly and inhumanity of his conduct. But a further blow awaits him; and it is not till Pylades informs him of the death of Hermione, that the horrors of madness begin to seize on his mind. At first he remains motionless and thunderstruck with the dreadful issue of his enterprise; then, in a low and thrilling tone of voice, he laments the bitterness and misery of that destiny by which he is doomed to be for ever the victim of fate, (du malheur un modêle accompli,) till the wildness of madness comes over him: In a voice hardly heard, he seems to ask himself, "Quelle épaisse nuit tout a coup m'environne, de quelle coté sortir? D'ou-vient que je frissonne. Quelle horreur me saisit?"—and at once a shriek, dreadful beyond all description, announces the destruction of reason, and the agonies of madness. It is vain to describe the wild, desperate, and horrifying manner in which he represents Orestes tortured by the frightful visions with which the furies had visited his mind, till his nature, exhausted by such intense sufferings, sinks at once into a calm, more dreadful even than the wildness which had preceded it.

These remarks have been extended so much beyond the limits which can be interesting to those who have never seen this unrivalled actor, and to whom they can convey so very inadequate a notion of his powers, that it is impossible to make any further observations, which his performance in other characters may have suggested. The most interesting character, perhaps, in which we saw him perform after these, was Nero in Britannicus. Every person who has been in Paris, since the collection of statues was brought there, must have remarked the striking resemblance of Talma's countenance to the first busts of Nero; and this singular circumstance, along with the admirable manner in which he represents the impatient, headstrong, and profligate tyrant, rendered his acting in this character remarkably interesting. The opportunities Which he enjoyed of studying the character and the manner of Bonaparte,—who never forgot the assistance he received from Talma, when he first entered that city, where he was afterwards to govern with such unbounded power,—must have been present to his mind when he was preparing this difficult character; and if it is supposed that he must have been, even with this advantage, little able to imagine correctly the manner and deportment of so singular a character as the Roman Emperor, none will question the judgment, on this point, of that extraordinary person, under whose tyranny Talma so long lived, and who, as Talma has often declared, did actually suggest many improvements in the manner in which he had first acted the part.

Mademoiselle Georges, the great tragic actress, was reckoned at one time the most beautiful woman in France. She is now grown very large, and her movements are, from that cause, stiff and constrained; but she is still a fine woman, and her countenance, though not very striking at first sight, is capable of wonderful variety and intensity of expression; her style of acting may be said to be intermediate between the matronly dignity and majestic deportment of Mrs Siddons, and the enchanting sweetness and feminine graces of Miss O'Neil. In the delineation of strong feelings and violent passions, of grief, madness, or despair, she will not suffer from comparison with either of these actresses; but we should doubt whether she can ever have inspired as much moral sympathy and admiration as the one has always commanded, by the elevation and grandeur of her representation of characters of exalted virtue, and the other daily wins, by the interesting tenderness of her manner, by the truth and energy of her impassioned scenes, and the overpowering pathos of her distress.

The tragedy of Œdipe, by Voltaire, affords room for the display of the most characteristic qualities of Talma and Mademoiselle Georges; and when we saw them act Œdipus and Jocasta in this piece, we agreed that there were certainly no actor and actress, of equally transcendent merit, who act together in either of the London theatres. The distress of the play is of too horrible and repulsive a kind, we should conceive, to be ever admitted on the English stage; but it furnishes occasion for the display of consummate art in the imitation of the most terrible and overpowering emotions; and it is difficult to conceive a more powerful representation than they exhibited of the gloomy forebodings of suspicion, of the agonizing suspence of unsatisfied doubt, and the "sickening pang of hope deferred"—heightened, rather than diminished, by the consciousness of innocent intention, and the feeling of undeserved affliction, and giving way only to the certainty of irretrievable misery, and the phrenzy of utter despair.

In concluding these remarks, upon a subject which interested us so much, we are anxious to offer some general reflections upon the character of the French stage, which were suggested by the observations we had an opportunity of making. It is far from being our intention, to enter into any discussion of the rules upon which the construction of their tragedies is supposed to depend, or to occupy the time of our readers, by useless remarks upon the sacrifices which it is said must be made, by strictly observing the unities in dramatic compositions. Quite enough is known of the defects of the French tragedy, and it is much to be regretted, that those who have had an opportunity of attending the French theatre, have generally carried their national prejudices along with them, and seem to have been more desirous to confirm the prepossessions they had previously acquired, than to form any fair and correct estimate of the merits of that drama. We are a little aware in general in this country, how much the composition of our own tragedies might be improved, and how much the effect of the talents which the stage displays might be increased, were we as candid in admitting the very great excellencies which the French stage possesses, as we have been desirous to discover its imperfections. Without presuming to attempt an examination of the French theatre, in the view of correcting what appear to us the errors in the public taste, we mean merely to state in what respects it appeared to us, that the impression left on the mind by the French tragedies is stronger and more lasting than any that we have experienced from attending our own theatres. Our conviction of the general superiority of the English stage has been already expressed, and therefore we hope we shall not be misapprehended in the object which we have in view in such remarks.

1. In the first place, then, we would mention—what we hope is not necessary to illustrate at any length—the very great impression which must be made upon every thoughtful mind, by the unity of emotion which the French tragedies are fitted to produce. The effect which may result from this unity of emotion appears to excite much deeper interest, than can be produced by the mere exertion of the actors' power, when it is not uniformly directed to the expression of one general character. It is also worthy of consideration, whether the very important purposes to which the drama may be rendered subservient, may not be more easily accomplished, when the whole tendency of the composition, and the influence of acting, are employed in one general and consistent design. No such principle seems to have been kept in view in the composition of the greater part of the English tragedies. They resemble much, in truth, as we have before observed, the scene of human affairs, which the general aspect of the world presents,—full of every variety of incident, and depending upon the actions of a number of different characters. In the principal subject of the play, many seem to perform parts nearly of equal importance, and to be equally concerned in the issue of the story; each personage has his separate interest to claim our attention, and peculiar features of character, which require nice discrimination; and in general, no one character, or one subject, is sufficiently presented to view. The minds of the spectators, therefore, are oppressed and distracted by the variety of feelings which are excited, and their interest interrupted and dissipated, in some degree, from the variety of objects which claim it. The general impression, therefore, left upon the mind, is less pointed, less profound, and must produce less influence upon character, than when the feelings have been steadily and powerfully interested in the consequences of one marked and important event, or in the illustration of one great moral truth.

2. We must be permitted to state, in the second place, that we think the French theatre is decidedly superior to our own, in the propriety and discrimination with which they keep out of view many of those exhibitions, which, on the English stage, are studiously brought forward with a view to effect: It would be altogether useless, to enter into any discussion of a question which has often been the subject of much idle controversy; nor should we be able, we know, to suggest any thing which could have any influence with those who think, that all the murders, and battles, and bustle, which occur in many of the grander scenes in the English tragedies, can increase the interest which such tragedies might produce, or contribute to the effect of theatrical illusion. We were not fortunate enough to see Talma in Ducis' play of Macbeth, where the difference between the French and English stage in this particular is very strongly illustrated; but from every thing we have, understood, of the wonderful impression which is produced, when he describes his interview with the weird sisters—the terrors which accompanied their appearance, and the feelings which their predictions awakened, we are persuaded that the effect must be much finer than any thing which can result from the feeble attempt to represent all this to the eye. Macbeth, however, without the witches, and all the clumsy machinery which is employed on the stage to carry through so impracticable a scene, would appear stripped of its principal beauties to the taste of a great part of an English audience; and yet we are perfectly convinced, that there is no one imperfection, in the plan or composition of the French tragedies, so deserving of censure, as the taste which can admit such representations on the stage. We allude, of course, entirely to the attempt to introduce this celebrated scene upon the stage; none can admire more than we do, the powerful and creative imagination which it displays.

3. The next circumstance to which we allude, is that very remarkable one—of the dignity of sentiment, and elevation of thought, which uniformly characterise the compositions of the French stage. This is a perfection which, we believe, has never been denied by any one who is in any degree acquainted with these productions; and therefore we are anxious, as that very excellence has sometimes been thought to unfit them for actual representation, merely to state, from our own experience, the very great impression which such lofty and dignified sentiments, in the composition of the play, are fitted to produce. For ourselves we can say, that no dramatic representation on the English stage produced the same permanent effect with some of the greater compositions of the French tragedy; and we cannot but consider much of their influence to be owing to the sublime and elevating sentiments with which they abound. We could wish to see the tone of the tragedies which are now presented for the English stage, animated by the same strain of dignified thought, and become more worthy of the approbation of a great, and enlightened, and virtuous people.

Simple as these observations may appear, they yet suggest what we must consider as most important improvements in the composition and character of the English drama: The only tragedies which have been written for many years for our stage are, with a few exceptions, undeniably the feeblest productions in any branch of the national literature, and have in general carried, to the utmost extreme, the imperfections which existed in the works of those earlier writers whose genius and natural feeling they have never been able to equal. Whenever any change does occur in the character and tone of the tragedies of the English stage, we are persuaded that much will be gained by further acquaintance with the dramatic representations of the French theatre; and that the defects of our own theatre can only be avoided, by imitating some of the perfections of that drama, which we are accustomed at present so hastily to censure.

We have only now to remark, that while the works of Corneille, of Racine, and Voltaire, must ever remain conspicuous in the French drama, we shall judge very erroneously of the present character of the French stage, if we are only acquainted with these compositions of earlier times. The consequences of the revolution have been felt in the tone of dramatic composition, as in every other branch of literature, and in every condition of society. The misfortunes which all classes of the people have sustained,—the anxiety, and suspence, and terror, which they so often felt, and the insecurity which so long seemed to attend every enjoyment of human life, accustomed them so much to scenes of deep interest, and to profound emotion, that it became necessary, in the theatre, to have recourse to more powerful means of exciting their compassion, and engaging their interest, than was always afforded by the tragedies of the old writers. The same change, then, which is observable in many other branches of the French literature of late years, seems to have taken place, to a considerable extent, in compositions for the stage; and from the serious and melancholy turn which was often given to the public mind, it has become requisite, in later writings, to introduce subjects of deeper interest, and more fitted to affect the imagination in moments of strong popular feeling, and of great national danger. Many of the reflections, therefore, which such circumstances suggested, have been introduced into the tragedies which have been composed during the very eventful period which has elapsed since the commencement of the revolution; and the authors have adapted, in a considerable degree, the interest, or the management of their plays, to those peculiar sentiments which the character of that period had given to the people. These sentiments may not always indicate very sound principle, or very elevated feeling, but, in the turn which has sometimes been given to the French plays, they are made to favour the introduction of much poetical beauty, and much dramatic interest. We have already mentioned, that there appears to be a vague, but general impression of the influence of fatality upon human conduct, floating in the public mind; and though such a notion, probably, is seldom admitted in the shape of a distinct doctrine, many circumstances indicate, that among the body of the people, and among the army in particular, the influence of this superstition is very considerable. It is appealed to in many of those political writings which best indicate the feelings of those to whom they are addressed; and we have all remarked how much and how artfully their late ruler availed himself of this belief, to connect the ascendancy of his arms, and the prosperity of his dynasty, with the destiny of human affairs. On several very important occasions, the utmost possible interest has been given to the history of particular characters, in many recent tragedies, by employing this powerful feeling in the public mind; and it was very apparent, that the spectators took peculiar interest in the denouement of the plays in which this subject was introduced.

In the works of Ducis, of Raynouard, and of several other recent writers, and in many of the plays formed from tragedies of the German school, very strong indications are to be found of the effect of the circumstances in which the people have been placed, in giving, in some respects, a new tone to dramatic compositions, and in calling forth productions of deeper interest, and capable of exciting more profound emotion, than could generally be produced by the works of the earlier periods of French literature.

It is an animating proof of the ascendancy of virtuous feeling, and a striking illustration of the tendency of great assemblies of men, when not actuated by particular passions, to join in what is generous and elevated in human thought, that not only have the tragedies of the earlier writers continued to be universally admired, and constantly acted during the whole period of the revolution, but that the standard of sentiment has not been lowered in those productions which have been designed expressly for the French stage during that period, and that the dignity of ancient virtue, and the elevation of natural feeling, still ennoble the tone of French tragedy.

The French comedies and comic acting are not less characteristic of the people than their tragedies. They are a gay and lively, but not a humorous people. A Frenchman enters into amusements with an eagerness and relish, of which, in this country, we have no conception; all his cares and sorrows are forgotten; all his serious occupations are postponed; all his unruly passions are calmed;—he thinks neither of his individual misfortunes, nor of his national degradation; neither of the friends whom he has lost in the war, nor of the foreign soldiers whom it has placed at his elbow; his whole soul is absorbed in the game, in the dance, or in the spectacle. But his object is not laughter, or passive enjoyment, or relaxation; it is the excitation of his spirits, the occupation, and interest, and agitation of his mind, the varied gratification of his senses, the exercise of his fancy, the display of his wit, and taste, and politeness.

The exhibitions at the theatres are accommodated to this taste. With the exception of some of Moliere's works, such as the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, and M. de Pourceaugnac, (which are seldom acted, at least at the Theatre Français), there are hardly any French comedies which are characterised by what we call humour,—which have for their main object the representation of palpably ludicrous peculiarities of character and manner. You never hear, in a French theatre, the same loud uncontrollable bursts of laughter, which are so often excited by representations of this kind in London. There are no such actors, at the principal theatres, as Matthews, or Liston, or Bannister, or Munden, or Emery, whose principal merit lies in mimicry and buffoonery. There are hardly any entertainments corresponding in character to our farces; the after-pieces are short comedies, and characters in low life are introduced into them, not as objects of derision, but of interest and sympathy.

On the other hand, operas and genteel comedies, which are esteemed only by the higher ranks in England, are a favourite amusement of all ranks in France. The qualities which are most highly prized in the comedies, are, interest and variety of incident and situation, wit and liveliness of dialogue, and a certain elevation and elegance of character.

Regarding the character of the French tragedies, there will always be much difference of opinion; and many, probably, of those who have had the best opportunities of studying them, as performed upon the stage at Paris, may yet retain nearly the same judgment concerning them which they formed in reading them in the closet. And we are willing to admit, that admirable as they appear to us in many respects, they are not well adapted to become popular in this country. But the excellencies and unrivalled elegance of the French comedy, have been at all times universally admitted, while there is this great distinction between them and the tragedies of the French school, that however great the pleasure we may take in reading them, no one ever saw them well performed, without acknowledging, that until then, he had no conception of the astonishing field which they afford for the display of the actor's power, or of the innumerable charms which they possess as dramatic compositions.

Everything that ever was amiable and engaging in the character of the French people; the elegance and bon-hommie of their manners, which served as a passport to the French in every country in Europe, and softened the feelings of national resentment with which their ambition and their arrogance to other nations had taught many to regard them as a people; their well-known superiority to other nations in those circumstances, which render them agreeable and pleasant in society, in their constant attention and accommodation to the wishes and pursuits of others, in that anxiety to please, to entertain, and to promote the interests and happiness of others, which costs so little to those who are never subject to that unhappy irregularity of temper and spirit, so visible to all foreigners in the character of the English people, and which never fails to secure esteem, and to interest the affections, while superior worth, less happily gifted for the common purposes and intercourse of life, may be regarded with no warmer feeling than that of distant respect; the loyauté and frankness once so closely associated with the history and character of the French people; the manliness which taught them at once to admit and to repair the wrongs which their impetuosity of spirit, or their harshness of feeling, might have occasioned, and the gallantry with which they were wont to defend with their sword what their honour bound them to maintain; and above all, that delightful and touching abandon of feeling, which seemed the result of genuine simplicity, and which appeared to know no reserve, only because it knew no guilt; all these beautiful and interesting traits, which adorned the character of former and of later days, are still preserved in the comedies of their greater writers; the purity of former character seems to animate the pages which they write, and the spirit of earlier times seems yet to retain its ascendancy, when they wish to pourtray the manners of the present day.

In the degradation of the present period, they delight to recall the splendour and the renown of the period that is past; and, by preserving in their works the character which adorned the French people before the profligacy and the insidious policy of a corrupt court disarmed the nation of its virtue, to reconcile it to slavery, they attempt to awaken a nobler spirit, and lay the foundation of future grandeur. Whatever has delighted us in reading the history of the earlier periods of the French monarchy, when the elevation of chivalrous feeling, and the disinterestedness of simple manners, distinguished the French people, and when the character of the great Henry displayed, in a more conspicuous station, the virtues which ennobled the duties of private life, is yet to be found in their best comedies. Among the many thousands who crowd to their numerous theatres, there are many, one would hope, who can feel the sad contrast which the last century of French history, "fertile only in crime," presents to the honour of former times, and in whom may be reviving that lofty and generous spirit which may yet redeem the character they have lost.

It seems not a little singular, that this taste in comedy should have survived all the disorders of the revolution, and remained unchanged amid the general diffusion of military habits and manners. This may be partly explained by the circumstance, that the judges by whom theatrical exhibitions are mainly regulated, are stationary at Paris, while the men, whose actions have stamped the French character of the present day, have been dispersed over the world. But it must certainly be admitted, that the taste of the French has not undergone an alteration corresponding with that which is so obvious in their manners; and has not degenerated to the degree that might have been expected, from the diffusion of revolutionary ideas and licentious habits. The Theatre Français affords perhaps the best specimen that now remains of the style of conversation, and manners, and costume, of the old school of French politeness.

For the representation of pieces bearing the general character which we have described, the French are certainly better fitted than any other people,—their native gaiety and sprightliness of disposition,—the polish which their manners so readily acquire,—their irrepressible confidence and self-conceit,—their love of shewing off, and attracting attention, give really a stage effect to many of their serious actions, and to almost all their trifling conversation and amusements. Hence, a stranger is particularly struck with the uniform excellence of the comic acting on the French stage; all the inferior parts ate sustained with spirit, and originality, and discriminating judgment; all the actors are at their ease, and a regular genteel comedy is as well acted throughout, as a farce is on the London stage.

The greatest comic actor at the Theatre Français is Fleury. He is an actor completely fitted for the French style of comedy. He gives you the idea of a perfect gentleman, with much wit and liveliness, and consummate confidence and self-possession; who delivers himself with inimitable archness and pleasantry, but without the least exaggeration or buffoonery; who has too high an opinion of himself and his powers, to descend to broad jokes or allusions belonging to the lower kinds of humour. Those who have an accurate recollection of the admirable acting of Irish Johnstone, in the characters of Major O'Flaherty, or Sir Lucius O'Trigger, will have a better conception, than any description of ours can convey, of the style of acting in which Fleury so eminently excels.

Whatever may be thought of the other performers, none can see without pleasure the performances of that celebrated actress, who has so long been the ornament of the national theatre, and to whom the support of their comedy has been so long entrusted. During the greatest period of the revolution, Mademoiselle Mars has been the favourite and the delight of the people of Paris, and there is perhaps no feeling among them stronger, or more national, than the pride which they take in her incomparable acting; all the grace, and elegance, and genuine feeling which she so beautifully displays, they consider as belonging to her only because she is a French woman; and nothing would ever convince them that, had she been born in any other country, it would have been possible that she should possess half the perfections which they now admire in her.

Mademoiselle Mars is probably as perfect an actress in comedy as any that ever appeared on any stage. She has united every advantage of countenance, and voice, and figure, which it is possible to conceive, and no one can ever have witnessed her incomparable acting, without feeling that the imagination can suggest nothing more completely lovely—more graceful, or more natural and touching than her representation of character. Mademoiselle Mars has been most exquisitely beautiful; and though the period is past when that beauty had all the brilliancy and freshness of youth, time appears hardly to have dared to lay his chilling hand on that lovely countenance, and she still acts characters which require all the naïveté, and gaiety, and tenderness of youthful feeling, with every appearance of the spring of human life. It is remarked by Cibber, that a woman has hardly time to become a perfect actress, during the continuance of her personal attractions. If there ever was an exception to this remark, Mademoiselle Mars is one. She was an admired actress, we were assured, before the revolution; yet she has still, at least on the stage, a light elegant figure, and a countenance of youthful animation and beauty, while long experience has given that polish and perfection to her acting, which can be derived from no other source.

It were in vain to attempt describing the innumerable excellencies which render her acting so perfectly enchanting;—the admirable manner in which the French comedies are performed is so particular to the stage of that country, that it would be quite fruitless to attempt to describe a style of acting unknown to the people of Britain; and of that style Mademoiselle Mars is the model. Every thing that can result from the truest elegance and gracefulness of manners—from the most genuine and lively abandon of feeling,—from the most winning sweetness of expression, and the greatest imaginable gaiety and benevolence, displayed in one of the most beautiful women ever seen, and endowed with the most delightful and melodious voice, is united in Mademoiselle Mars; and all words were in vain, which would pretend to describe the bright and glittering vision which captivates the imagination. It is impossible to conceive any thing more perfect as a specimen of art, or more beautiful as an imitation of nature, than her representation of the kind of heroine most commonly to be found in a French comedy; lively and playful, yet elegant and graceful; entering with ardour into amusements, yet capable of deep feeling and serious reflection: fond of admiration and flattery, yet innocent and modest; full of petty artifice and coquetry, yet natural and unaffected in affairs of importance; capricious and giddy in appearance, but warm-hearted and affectionate in reality. It is a character to which there is a kind of approximation among many French women; and if it were as well supported by them in real life, as by her on the stage, it would be difficult even for French vanity to describe the fascination of their manner, in terms of admiration which would not command general assent. There is much variety, it must be added, in her powers. On one occasion, we saw her act Henriette in Les Femmes Savantes of Moliere, and Catau La Partie de Chasse de Henri IV, an£ it was difficult to say whether most to admire the wit, and elegance, and police raillery of the woman of fashion, or the innocent gaiety, and interesting naïveté of the simple peasant girl.

There is no actress at present on the English stage of equal eminence in a similar line of parts. The exhibition which can best convey to an English reader some slight notion of her enchanting acting, is the manner in which Miss O'Neil performs the scene in Juliet with the old nurse; because it is probably exactly the manner in which Mademoiselle Mars would perform that scene, but cannot afford any conception of her excellence in scenes of higher interest and greater feeling. Mrs Jordan may have equalled her in gaiety, and probably excelled her in humorous expression, but we suspect she must always have been deficient in elegance and refinement. The actress who, we think, comes nearest to her in genteel comedy, is Mrs Henry Siddons, in her beautiful representation of such parts as Beatrice or Viola; but she has not the same appearance of natural light-hearted buoyancy and playfulness of disposition; you see occasional transient indications of a serious thoughtful turn of mind, which assumes gaiety and cheerfulness, rather than passes naturally into it; which you admire, because it places the actress in a more amiable light, but which takes off from the fidelity and perfection of her art.

Wherever Mademoiselle Mars has acted, in every part of France, the enthusiasm which she inspires, and the astonishing interest which they take in her acting, is such as could be felt only in France. We were fortunately in Lyons when she came there, on leaving Paris during the course of last summer; and during the few days we were there, nothing appeared to be thought of but the merits of this unrivalled actress. The interest which the recent visit of Madame had created, was altogether lost in the delight which the performance of Mademoiselle Mars had occasioned: She was crowned publicly in the theatre with a garland of flowers, and a fete was celebrated in honour of her by the public bodies and authorities of the town.

Corresponding to the Opera House in London, there are three theatres in Paris; the Odeon, the Opera Comique, and the Academie de Musique. At the first of these there is an immense company of musicians, of all kinds; and Italian Operas are admirably performed. It is the handsomest, and perhaps the most genteelly attended of any of the Parisian theatres. The music here, as well as the musicians, are all Italian; and there can certainly be no comparison between it and the French, which is generally feeble and insipid in pathetic expression, and extravagant and bombastic in all attempts at grandeur. The first singer at the Odeon was Madame Sessi, who has since been in London; but Madame Morelli, with a voice somewhat inferior in power, appeared to us a more elegant actress. The performance of Girard on the flute was wonderful, and met with extravagant applause, but it was somewhat too laboured and artificial for our untutored ears:

The Opera Comique is confined almost exclusively to the sort of entertainment which the name expresses: the scenes are generally laid in the country, and the characters introduced are of the lower orders: the pieces commonly represented belong to the same class, therefore, as the English operas, Love in a Village, Rosina, &c. but the dialogue is in general more animated, less vulgar in the lower parts, and less sentimental in the higher. The number of performers at this theatre is not very great; but there are some good singers and dancers, and the acting is almost uniformly excellent. Indeed, the French character is peculiarly well fitted for assuming the gay and lively tone that pervades their opera buffa, which may be characterised as amusing and interesting in general, rather than comic; as full of spirit and vivacity, rather than of humour. Occasionally, however, characters and incidents of true humour are introduced; but these are in general considered as belonging to a lower species of amusement; and are to be found in higher perfection, we believe, in some of the inferior theatres, particularly the Theatre des Varietés.

The acting at the Opera Comique appeared to us deserving of the same encomiums with the comic acting at the Theatre Français: every part is well supported, not with the elegance that characterises the latter theatre, but with perfect adaptation to the situation of the characters. A Mademoiselle Regnaud, of this theatre, acts with admirable liveliness and spirit. Her quarrel and reconciliation with her lover, in "Le Nouveau Seigneur du Village," appeared to us a chef d'œuvre of the light and pleasing style of acting, which suits the character of the French comic opera.

The Academie de Musique, (which is celebrated for dancers, not for musicians), is on a very different plan from the opera in London. The performers being in part supported by government, the prices of admission are made very low; and the company, particularly in the parterre, or pit, is therefore of a much lower class than in London, though perfect decorum is, as usual, uniformly observed. The performances at this theatre are, we think, decidedly superior to those in the London opera. This superiority consists partly in the pre-eminent merits of the first-rate dancers; but chiefly in the uniform excellence of the vast number of inferior performers, the beauty of the scenery, and the complete knowledge of stage effect, which is displayed in all the arrangements of the representations.

We believe there are not at present, on the London stage, any dancers of equal merit with Madame Gardel, or Mademoiselle Bigottini. The former of these is said to be 45 years of age, and has long been reckoned the best figuranté on this stage. Her face is not handsome, but her figure is admirably formed for the display of her art, of which she is probably the most perfect mistress to be found in Europe. The latter, an Italian by birth, is much younger, and if she does not yet quite equal her rival in artificial accomplishments, she at least attracts more admirers by her youth and beauty; by the exquisite symmetry of her form, and the natural grace and elegance of her movements. The one of these is certainly the first dancer, and the other is perhaps the most beautiful woman in Paris.

But the same unfortunate peculiarity of taste which we formerly noticed in the painting and in the gardening of the French, extends to their opera dancing; indeed it may be said to be the worst feature of their general taste. They are too fond of the exhibition of art, and too regardless of the object, to which art should be made subservient. Dancing should never be considered as a mere display of agility and muscular power. It is then degraded to a level with Harlequin's tricks, wrestling, tumbling, or such other fashionable entertainments. The main object of the art unquestionably is, to display in full perfection the beauty and grace of the human form and movements. In so far as perfect command of the limbs is necessary, or may be made subservient to this object, it cannot be too much esteemed; but when you pass this limit, it not only ceases to be pleasing, but often becomes positively offensive. Many of the pirouettes, and other difficult movements, which are introduced into the pas seuls, pas de deux, &c. in which the great dancers display their whole powers, however wonderful as specimens of art, are certainly any thing but elegant or graceful. The applause in the French opera seemed to us to be in direct proportion to the difficulty, and to bear no relation whatever to the beauty of the performances. A Frenchman regards, with perfect indifference, dances which, to a stranger at least, appear performed with inimitable grace, because they are only common dances, admirably well executed; but when one of the male performers, after spinning about for a long time, with wonderful velocity, arrests himself suddenly, and stands immoveable on one foot; or when one of the females wheels round on the toes of one foot, holding her other limb nearly in a horizontal position—he breaks out into extravagant exclamations of astonishment and delight: "Quel a plomb! Ah diable! Sacre Dieu!" &c.

But although the principal dances at the Opera, and those on which the French chiefly pride themselves, are much injured, in point of beauty, by this artificial taste, the execution of the less laboured parts of these dances, and of nearly the whole of their common national dances, is quite free from this defect, and is, we should conceive, the most beautiful exhibition of the kind that is any where to be seen. It is only in a city where amusements of all kinds are sought for, not merely by way of relaxation, but as matters of serious interest and national concern, and where dancing, in particular, is an object of universal and passionate admiration, that such numbers of first-rate dancers can be found, as perform constantly at the Academie de Musique. The whole strength of the company there, which often appeared on the stage at the time we speak of, was certainly not less than 150; and there were hardly any of these whose performance was not highly pleasing, and did not present the appearance of animation and interest in the parts assigned them.

Many of the serious operas performed here are exceedingly beautiful; they are got up, not perhaps at more expense, nor with more magnificence, than the spectacles in London, but certainly with more taste and knowledge of stage effect. Tie scenery is beautifully painted, and is disposed upon the stage with more variety, and in such a manner as to form a more complete illusion, than on any other stage we have seen. The music and singing are certainly inferior to what is heard at the Odeon, but the acting, where it is not injured by the effect of the recitative, is very generally excellent; and the number and variety of dances introduced, afford opportunities of displaying all the attractions of this theatre.

The pantomimes are uniformly executed with inimitable grace and effect. We were particularly pleased with that called L'Enfant Prodigue, in which the powers and graces of Mademoiselle Bigottini are displayed to all possible advantage. One of the most splendid of the serious operas, is that entitled Le Caravansera de Cairo, the scenery of which was painted in Egypt, by one of the artists who accompanied Napoleon thither, and is beyond comparison the most highly finished and beautiful that we have ever seen, and gives an idea of the aspect of that country, which no other work of art could convey. Another opera, which attracted our attention, was called "Ossian, ou les Bardes." One of the scenes, where the heroes and heroines of departed times are seen seated on the clouds, displayed a degree of magnificence which made it a fit representation of "the dream of Ossian." Some of the Highland scenery in this opera was really like nature; and the dresses, particularly the cambric and vandyked kilts, bore some distant analogy to the real costume of the Highlanders; and although we could not gratify the Parisians who sat by us, by admitting the resemblance of the female figures, who skipped about the stage with single muslin petticoats, and pink and white kid slippers, to the "Montagnardes Ecossaises c'est a dire demi-sauvages," whom they were intended to represent, we at least flattered their vanity, by expressing our wish that the latter had resembled the former.

But the most beautiful of all the exhibitions at the Academie de Musique, are the ballets which represent pastoral scenes and rural fetes, such as Colinette a la Cour, L'Epreuve Villageoise, &c. It is singular, that in a city, the inhabitants of which have so entire a contempt for rural enjoyments, pieces of this kind should form so favourite a theatrical entertainment; but it must be confessed, that such scenes as form the subject of these ballets, occur but seldom in the course of a country life, and never in the degree of perfection in which they are represented in Paris. The union of rustic simplicity and innocence, with the polish and refinement which are acquired by intercourse with the world, may be conceived by the help of these exhibitions, but can hardly be witnessed in real life. The illusion, however, when such scenes are exhibited, is exceedingly pleasing; and no where certainly is this illusion so perfect as in the Academie de Musique, where the charming scenery, the enlivening music, the number and variety of characters, which are supported with life and spirit, the beauty of the female performers, and the graceful movements, and lively animated air of all;—if they do not recall to the spectator any thing which he has really witnessed, seem to transport him into the more delightful regions in which his fancy has occasionally wandered, and to realize for a moment to him, those fairy scenes to which his youthful imagination had been familiarized, by the beautiful fictions of poetry or romance.

The Parisian theatres are at all times sources of much amusement and delight; but at the time of which we speak, they were doubly interesting, as affording opportunities of seeing the most distinguished characters of this eventful age; and as furnishing occasional strong indications of the state of popular feeling in France. The interest of occurrences of this last kind is now gone by, and it is almost unnecessary for us to bear testimony to the strong party that uniformly manifested itself when any sentiment was uttered expressive of a wish for war, of admiration of martial achievements, and of indignation at foreign influence, or domestic perfidy, (under which head the conduct of Talleyrand and of Marmont was included); and more especially, when the success, and glory, and eternal, immutable, untarnished honour of France, were the theme of declamation. The applause at passages of this last description seemed sometimes ludicrous enough, when the theatres were guarded by Russian grenadiers, and nearly half filled with allied officers, loaded with honours which had been won in combating the French armies.

The majority of the audience, however, appeared always delighted at the change of government, and in the opera in particular, the first time that the King appeared, the expression of loyalty was long, reiterated, and enthusiastic, far beyond our most sanguine anticipations. It would have been absurd to judge of the real feelings of the majority of the Parisians, still more of the nation at large, from this scene; and it was certainly not to be wished, that a blind and devoted loyalty to one sovereign should take the place of infatuated attachment to another; yet it was impossible not to sympathize with the joy of people who had been agitated, during the best part of their lives, by political convulsions, or oppressed by military tyranny, but who fancied themselves at length relieved from both; and who connected the hope of spending the remainder of their days in tranquillity and peace, with the recollections which they had received from their fathers, of the happiness and prosperity of their country under the long line of its ancient kings. It was impossible to hear the national air of "Vive Henri Quatre," and the enthusiastic acclamations which accompanied it, without entering for the moment into the feeling of unhesitating attachment, and unqualified loyalty, which has so long prevailed in most countries of the world, but which the citizens of a free country should indulge only when it has been deserved by long experience and tried virtue.

It was with different, but not less interesting feelings, that we listened to the same tune from the splendid bands of the Russian and Prussian guards, as they passed along the Boulevards; on their return to their own countries; It was a grand and moving spectacle of political virtue, to see the armies which had been arrayed against France, striving to do honour to the government which she had assumed:—instead of breathing curses, or committing outrages on the great and guilty city, which had provoked all their vengeance, to see them march out of the gates of Paris with the regularity of the strictest military discipline, to the sound of the grand national air, which spoke "peace to her walls, and prosperity to her palaces,"—leaving, as it were, a blessing on the capital which they had conquered and forgiven: It was a scene that left an impression on the mind worthy of the troops who had bravely and successfully opposed the domineering power of France,—who had struggled with it when it was strongest, and "ruled it when 'twas wildest," but who spared it when it was fallen;—who forgot their wrongs when it was in their power to revenge them;—who cast the laurels from their brows, as they passed before the rightful monarch of France, and honoured him as the representative of a great and gallant people, long beguiled by ambition, and abused by tyranny, but now acknowledging their errors, and professing moderation and repentance.