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exploits of genius, the emanations of a mighty mind, which dares to delight us by a congregation of embellishments that inferior energy would tremble to collect. For such a treat we thank the author most devotedly, and his merit in bringing before us what had ample reason to be elsewhere, is so conspicuous, that we shall retire from the fields of criticism in disgust, if our colleagues, to any amount, are either senseless or ungrateful enough to depreciate his merit, or resist his claims.

Of the company in general we may say, as Churchill said before us,

Never did play'rs so well an author fit,
To nature dead, and foes declar'd to wit;
So loud each tongue, so empty was each head,
So much they talk'd, so very little said ;
So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain,
At once so willing and unfit to reign ;
That reason swore, nor would the oath recall,
Their mighty master's soul inform’d them all.

This is unqualified, and to some persons may appear inmerited praise, but we can safely repeat our conviction that there was not an individual in the troop to whom such praise could be unfairly attributed. Mr. Lewis delighted us in Gonzaria, by his vigorous personation of the feeble father; Horatius was admirably portrayed in all respects but those of youth, grace, and animation, by Junius Brutus Julian; and Mr. Clifford's drollery in the Italian patriarch paralyzes our faculty of description. The sensitive and retiring Eudocia was finely depicted by the masculine firmness and declamatory tone of Mrs. Montague, who made us very often recollect her palpable prototypes, Mrs. Brookes and Mrs. Bunn. Nothing could exceed the softness of Miss Saunders in the fiery and vindictive passions of the turbulent Marcia ; and the Ghost of Mrs. Saker was a spirited and lively personation. It reminded us very forcibly of Mrs. Baker in the “ Romp," and we think a

power of approximating at any time to the talent of that clever little woman is the greatest proof that can be afforded of Mrs. Saker's ability.

Our exhausted limits will not permit us to enlarge upon the beautiful scenery and ingenious tricks of the harlequinade, which was replete with the best of those pretensions that are generally attached to this species of performance. The market-place of St. Alban's, and the panoramic view of St. Helena, were rare specimens of pictorial power, and we hope to see the artists employed upon this pantomime engaged for pursuits of a more permanent nature.

We are sorry to learn that the worthy Lessee of this national undertaking considers himself to be seriously injured by the conduct of Mr. Elliston, who not only opened at the very period appointed for the reaping of his little scanty harvest, but absolutely engaged the very actors of which his company was intended to consist. That the gentlemen and ladies then exerting their talents at Drury-lane Theatre, in conjunction with Mr. Kean, were eminently fitted for the purposes of Bartholomew-fair, we can easily suppose; but that they could reject their old manager's splendid terms of five shillings per day, for the seven and sixpence a-week awarded by Mr. Winston, is a fact, which, under present circumstances, we can hardly bring ourselves to believe. A friend has just assured us that he saw Mr. Elliston inspecting every booth in the fair, but very candidly mentions that he came, for the first time, to select à number of comedians, by whose united efforts the impression which Mr. Kean has produced for several seasons past might be maintained till his return. There is a good deal of probability in this experiment, and we confess that Mr. Richardson is still bound to verify his charge.

The success of this theatre, we understand, has been singularly great, and arrangements are making for next season, to render it still more worthy of public support. A tragedy by Leigh Hunt, called the “ Cid," which has been refused at both the Winter Theatres, will rank

among the earliest productions, and the “ Examiner" already teens with paragraphs in its praise. Mr. Moncrieff, it is also said, has undertaken to treat us with a “ Giovanni in New South Wales ;” and Mr. Beazley, the builder, will dramatize another of the Scotch novels on the top of a stage-coach. Mr. Yates is engaged to mimic the whole of his particular friends, and Madame V'estris will appear for the first and only time in the character of a lady.


"Trs morning--the shops are all open-the cries And week-day sights meet our ears and our eyes,

As the loaded waggons pass us, With wheels sticking out a yard at least, And housings grotesque that make every

beast Look like the London Bonassus.


'Tis church-time, and half of the shops are half shut, Except in the quarters of trade, where they put

At defiance what Louis enacted ; The streets are as full as before—and I The churches are nearly as empty, unless

Some mummery pageant is acted. When worship becomes a theatrical show, Parisians of course must religiously go

To pray-for the forwardest places,
Where best they may see a fine puppet for hours
Before a fine altar of tinsel and flowers

Perform pantomimic grimaces.
Some gaze on his shoes and his gloves of white kid,
Or the jewels with which every finger is hid,

Or his flounces of violet satin :
Other eyes on his laces and mitre are kept,
Attentive to all his performance-except

The prayers that he mumbles in Latin.

The senses give thanks-no responses are made,
And when there's a pause in the form and parade,

The orchestra strikes up a chorus;
The women then ask, who is that?—who is this?
While the men slily ogle the singers, and kiss

Their hands to the sweet Signoras.
Is there nothing of fervour?- yes, you may mark
Some hobbling old crones in a vestibule dark,

Who dab in the holy lotion
Shrivell'd fingers to cross their forehead and breast,
Then kneel at a chapel with candles dress’d,

And kiss it with blind devotion.
They pour from the church-and each fair one begs,
As she crosses the gutter and shows her legs,

To know what is next intended ;
For Sunday's devoted to pleasure and shows,
And the toils of the day of rest never close

Till both day and night are ended.
One talks of Versaillesor St. Cloud-or a walk,
And a hundred sharp voices that sing—not talk,

Instantly second each mover;
Some stroll to the Bois de Boulogne; others stray
To the Thuilleries, Luxembourg, Champs Elysées,

The Garden of Plants, or the Louyre.
But the dinner hour comes-an important event!
What pondering looks on the cartes * are now bent!

And how various-how endless the fare is, From the suburb Guinguette, to where epicures choose Fricandeaus, fricassées, consumés, and ragouts,

At Grignion's, Beauvillier's, or Very's.
Some belles in the Thuilleries' walk now appear,
While loungers take seat round about them—to sneer,

To chat-read the papers, or slumber.
In disposing the chairs there are different whims,
But one for the body, and two for the limbs,
Are reckon'd a moderate number.

* Bills of fare.

The Boulevards next are the grand rendezvous,
Where parties on parties amusement pursue,

A stream of perpetual friskers.
From the pretty Bourgeoise and trowser'd Commis,
The modern Grisette, and the ancient Marquis,

To the Marshal of France in whiskers.

Crowds sit under trees in defiance of damps;
Th' Italian Boulevard, with its pendulous lamps,

By far is the smartest of any-
With bare elbows, slim waists, and fine bonnets dress'd

out, Each Parisian beauty may there have a rout

For the price of the chair—a penny.

English women are known by their dresses of white; The men by superior neatness and height,

They talk of gigs, horses, and ponies; All look twice as grave as the French-yet their laugh, When they choose to indulge it, is louder by half,

And they turn in, of course, at Tortoni's.
The theatres open, some thirty or more
All are fill'd, yet the crowd seems as thick as before,

Regardless of mud, or of weather ;
You'd swear it were carnival-time and in sooth
The town is a fair-every house is a booth,

And the people all crazy together.

What braying of gongs—what confusion of tongues ! What a compound of noise from drums, trumpets, and

lungs !

Each striving his neighbour's to smother; Mimes, mountebanks, conjurers, each have their rings, While monkeys and dancing-dogs-roundabouts


Are so thick, they encroach on each other. Here's a dwarf, and a monster, both beautiful sights! And there is the man without fingers, that writes

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