Association, or to step forward boldly, and shew that it is able to put it down. We trust that when we again meet our readers with a further continua tion of these Chapters on Irish affairs, the public mind may be tranquil enough upon the subject, to admit of

our resuming our original intention of giving information on matters more connected with the improvement and the happiness of that country, than political strife.

London, 8th Oct. 1828.

J.

GENTLE READER, HAVE you ever known what it is to be in town-we mean in the city of Westminster during the whole of that period which is designated by men learned in the law, the long vacation? Moreover, have you led a bachelor's life therein-made your own breakfast, and then sallied forth to spend, as best you might,

"The long, long summer holiday ?" If you have, you have had abundant opportunity of finding out what it is to be very miserable. During " the season" the veriest stranger who has an eye and an ear, and thought, must find in London sufficient to occupy his attention; true, he may start and sigh, to think that of the busy and enormous multitude around him, not one would care, if, treading on yonder bit of orange peel, he should slip off the flagway, and falling beneath the wheel of that immense coal-waggon, have his thigh crushed to atoms, while you'd be saying" Jack Robinson." But if he do so sigh, the more fool he; first, because "grieving's a folly," as the old sea song hath it; next, because he is mistaken in supposing that no one would feel interested in his misfortune. There are two upon the very flagway with him, who would evince the great est sympathy in his fate; the one is a surgeon's apprentice, who would with anxious care bear him off to his hospital, that he might "try his 'prentice hand" to doctor him while living, and dissect him when dead; and the other is a running reporter to one of the morning papers, who would with gen tle and soothing accents inquire his name, condition, and abode, to swell the paragraph and increase his pay. Thirdly, there is quite enough of material around him for observation and meditation, without giving way to fanciful emotion; the business and the pleasure, the toil and the vanity, of the greatest city in the world, are sweep

VOL. XXIV.

ing along before his eyes, and the evervarying scene is pregnant with instruction and amusement, like the successive articles in a number of Blackwood's Magazine.

But in August and September, alas! how different! How insupportable the bright sunshine that blazes on the white pavement of the wide solitary squares! Why doth it shine at all upon these closed-up windows? Why are we mocked with this dazzling de solation? Methinks it should be dark

quite dark; for the light of heaven is thrown away here. Thrown away! By Jupiter, it is worse than thrown away; for, were it dark, a poor devil might walk about to get an appetite for his dinner unseen; but as it is, down comes a sun-beam plump in your face to reveal your visage to your friend's housekeepers, who stand taking the air on the steps, and stare at you with as much wonderment as if you had just dropped from the clouds; to say nothing of a rencontre with your tailor at the corner of the street, who takes off his hat, runs home, and directs your bill to be made out immediately, with a remark that he fears all is not right with Mr, or he wouldn't be here when nobody is in town.

There are a million vexations like unto these, or worse, which attend the summer sojourn of the West-Endian. No wonder then, that he should hail with satisfaction the autumnal equi nox, the early setting sun, and the evening gusts which come on with the darkness, mingled with rain-drops, and sweeping away the parched and smoky leaves from the trees in park and square. No wonder that he should delight to see the first of October, the early lighted lamps, the watch set, and the groups of young thieves clustering about the corners of the streets at half past six; that he should hear with pleasure the rolling of the hackneycoaches-the clattering of hurrying and crowded feet along the flags, and

4 B

the cry of "Fine fruit, your honour -bill of the play, your honourCommon Garden and Doory Lane!"

Once more a city seems a proper place for man's dwelling-noise and bustle, and the glare of artificial light arouse from their summer sleep, and London is itself again! Thus at least did we, (that is I, Timothy X.) feel as we wended our way in the swiftly darkening twilight of last Wednesday to Drury Lane Theatre. It was the first night of the season, and we arrived at the door just in time to take our place at the tail of a huge crowd, which, with a little jostling, and much good-humour, forced its way through the long winding passage which leads into the pit. Turn not up thy nose at us, because we went to the pit; it is a very pleasant place, and costs only three and sixpence. It is true, that one may sometimes find oneself seated beside two respectable persons who have brought cold beef and bread in their waistcoat pockets, and bottles of beer in the appendages of the same name which belong to the skirts of their coats; but the chances are ten to one that these are honest people, who tell truth, and cheat no one, which is more than can be said for some of the better dressed people in the boxes. Moreover, when a man goes to the pit, he feels that he is going to the play; there is a kind of trembling expectancy while one waits with the crowd for the door to open-and when it does open, there is such a rush and a sensation, (here, take care of your pockets, and turn your chain and seals into your fob,) and then when you do get into the wished-for and struggled-for place, there is so much settling and fixing, and congratulation of young women to one another that they are safe, and it is so pleasant to hear their remarks of delighted wonderment at the light and the splendour of the place, and to watch the subsiding of that wonder and delight, and the impatience which succeeds for the rising of the curtain. Then turn you to that group of fine young men who have two copies of the play amongst them, which they snatch one from another to point out the pas sages towards which each man directs the battery of his criticism: Why, sir, that alone is worth more than your three and sixpence. Pope, Warburton, Steevens, Malone, Johnson, Schlegel, never said any thing half so original as you may hear now. We could

write six chapters upon the advanta ges of going to the pit, and still leave room for six more chapters of good matter to be written upon the same subject; but for the reason of ourself being present there, let this suffice. We found ourself, at half past six of the clock, standing with our hands in our pockets gazing up at Mr Cadell's shop in the Strand, which we never pass without a mingling of pleasure and of awe

that shop! how plain its outsidehow modest, how unaspiring-simple as that of a Quaker, with its few greycovered books in the windows; and yet from thence cometh forth Maga upon the metropolis of Great Britain! So springeth forth the Eagle from its nest beneath the old grey stone that juts out in the face of the mountain. So leapeth out the Lion from his sandy cave, where through the livelong day he sleeps quiet and unnoticed as the earth on which he lies. So darteth forth the whale, swiftest of God's creatures, when, roused from its slumber on the surface of the waters, it shoots away, shaking the deep. But there we stood, wrapt in meditation, when a little urchin thrusting a play-bill upon us, which we, mechanically as it were, received out of his hands, awakened us from our reverie by his pertinacious demand for a penny. That instant we resolved to go to the play, and in the same instant we discovered that we had in our pockets precisely five shillings, besides coppers.-We trust we have made out a sufficient case to excuse our going to the pit.

We were hardly seated, when the huge house was full; and no wonder that it should be so,-the play was to be Hamlet, the most exquisite of plays, and the Prince was to be enacted by Young-of our time-the most admirable of players.-How wretchedly inadequate do we find words to be, when we wish to convey our ideas respecting such a play as Hamlet, and such a genius as conceived it!-that unutterably glorious genius! permitted for a while to walk this lower world, and, departing, to leave behind it a track of light that shall glow for ever, illuminating the souls of men! It was a curious thing to meditate upon the two characters, drawn by this mighty master, which were this night presented at the same instant to the audiences of the two great theatres. Here they had chosen Hamlet,-at Covent Garden, Jacques. How like are the general

outlines of these characters, yet how different their effect!-how exquisite the discrimination which separates them! Both are melancholy,-both meditative-both philosophical-both inclined, in bitterness of soul, to satirize mankind,-yet do they no more resemble each other than two countenances of different expression, but of which the noble and beautiful features are the same. Hamlet is our favourite. The deep, soft melancholy that breathes around the character, the starts of energy, the sarcasm, which has nothing hard or sharp in it, -the wit that flashes out like the flick ering meteor, when it shoots athwart the darkened welkin, leaving the succeeding murkiness more dread and sombre, the philosophy that soars upon the wings of poetry, and then, sorrowfully drooping, would "inquire too curiously" concerning things unsearchable. These, and a thousand other things, if we had imagination to describe, or words to utter them, give Hamlet the first place in our affection of all dramatic heroes.

Courteous reader, thy pardon; we brought thee to see the play, and here we keep thee, most unreasonably, with the huge green curtain only before thine eyes, while we lecture upon a subject, which has been so often and so ably lectured upon before. But, hark! there goes the prompter's little bell,-up goes the curtain, and there stands before us the whole vocal company "the old familiar faces”—dress ed in their very finest, and ready to welcome us with a stave of " God save the King," a song ever welcome, and ever may it be welcome to a British audience!-Bless us! what a clattering of smiting palms! We clapped our hands ourself, old fool as we are, like the very youngest of them; and uproariously encored the song, which was as badly sung as it could well be. With delight we encored it, and with yet more delight did we peruse the vexation of the Times newspaper the next morning, that an encore should have been given to such singing. We have no doubt, the unhappy man who "did Drury" that evening for the "leading journal of Europe," gnawed his nails to the very quick before he went to bed, and we wish him much joy upon the occasion. The miserable creature did not know, because he could not feel, that it was the song and not the singing which called forth

the loud and hearty encore; and that if the hoarsest ballad-singer from Saint Giles's had roared out that song, or even if he himself had brayed it from his beer-bemoistened throat, it would have been encored with enthusiasm.

And now they have made their bows and curtseys, and are gone,-the curtain falls, and rises again, and Shakspeare's tragedy is begun. Generally, one would as soon skip the first scene, but not so to-night; for Horatio's speech to the Ghost was extremely well delivered by a Mr Aitken, who was new to us Londoners, but who is not so to the stage, or, as we have heard, to the dwellers in the city of Maga.

Scene second brought us, as usual, the flourish of drums and trumpets, and the splendid entrée of the court of Denmark, closed by the melancholy Prince, clad in his "inky cloak." Not for many a day have the walls of Drury echoed to a burst of applause so loud and long as that which greeted Young on his appearance;-if hearty applause be pleasure to an actor, he must have been a happy man.

Young is acknowledged to be the greatest Hamlet of his time. His appearance is now something too old for the character; and, in looking at his figure, one could wish that he were rather less lusty in his waist and limbs, and that he carried his head "nearer to heaven by the altitude of a

chopine;"but here the subject of defects must have an end-all the rest is wellnigh faultless. He has the finest voice we ever heard, round, and full, and mellow as the deep tones of a musical instrument. Yet it is very capable of the energy of the fiercest storms of passion; and, whether roused to threaten and command, or modulated to the gentlest tones of love or grief, it harmonizes admirably with the sentiment which it conveys. Who that has once heard it can ever forget the deep, soft, sad tones with which he commences the beautiful soliloquy upon his own unhappiness, and his mother's guilty marriage ?-these tones

So musical-so melancholy,and then, how they are altered to the accents of bitterest anguish, as the passions of grief and indignation gain upon him,—

was delivered with such voice and ac tion, as to convey the most vivid im pression of mental misery, that it is possible to experience or conceive. We could with pleasure follow him through all the scenes of this play, dwelling upon the excellencies of his performance; or if, for the sake of holding to the old vocation of critics, we should find a little fault, it would be that he sometimes threw more force and rough energy into certain passages than the sentiment demanded, or than became the character of the gentle Hamlet. A softened melancholy should, in our humble opinion, be the pervading quality of the performance of this cha racter, and that which made Kean's performance of it so detestable, was the strutting and stamping, and roar ing, with which he outraged its beau tiful solemnity. Hamlet is only passionate for brief starts.

"A while the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are disclosed,

His silence will sit drooping.”

Of Young's performance this night, perhaps the very best part was the closet scene with the Queen, and the worst was his discourse with Horatio at the grave of Ophelia; the latter was deficient in conversational ease of delivery.

Miss Kelly-The Miss Kelly, as some newspaper very properly calls her-played Ophelia. We would give a thousand pounds (if we had it to give) to make this lady beautiful; and indeed we are rather angry with Dame Nature, that when she bestowed every thing else upon her, she should have left out this trifle, which would have thrown a dazzling splendour upon all the rest. Miss Kelly's Ophelia is an inimitable performance: it is the very perfection of art to imitate natural simplicity, that sweet, delicate, touching simplicity, in the delineation of which our Shakspeare does, more than in any thing else, seem to have called a spirit from heaven to guide his pen. It is an exceedingly delicious thing to listen to Miss Kelly's articulation of Shakspeare's blank verse-it is soft and clear as a silver bell, and only to be surpassed by her singing of such wild distracted snatches of melody as Ophelia pours forth in her madness.

Good, gentle reader, did you hear her? If not, I have but small chance of conveying to you any thing like a concep tion of those soft, wild notes, sung in a minor key, and dying gently away into silence. I know nothing to compare it to, except the sighing of the low wind of an autumnal evening through the strings of an Eolian harp.

Our grave-digger was played by Mr Harley, a merry grimacing gentle man, who ought to be allowed to stay at home, whenever Shakspeare is to be performed. He has manifestly no conception of poetry. Shakspeare's grave-digger, when he propounds his merry riddle to his companion, which his companion cannot answer, says to him," Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating." The which we have always thought a right merry and ingenious conceit. Mr Har ley said, "puzzle thy brains," and made nonsense of the passage. If the would have been much more approtext had been "d'ye give it up?" it priate and intelligible to him.

Our friend Terry, who played Polonius, and afterwards endeavoured to play Simpson in the farce, was evidently extremely ill, which we were very sorry to see, both on his account and on our own. Towards the conclusion of the evening, he could hardly speak; and the newspaper people, who most absurdly get perched up in the boxes near the roof, from which it is impossible to see any thing accurately on the stage, told the public the next morning that he played ill, without hinting at the cause, which, had they been near the stage, they must have perceived.

The consequence of Terry's indisposition was, that the farce of Simpson and Co., which is one of the very best that modern skill has produced, went off very flatly; yet one couldn't go away, because Miss E. Tree looked so bewitchingly handsome, and played her part with so much gaiety and naturalness, that even I, whom fifty years, and the rheumatism, have made passing indifferent to such attractions, could not take away my eyes while they were to be seen.

But at last the evening came to an end, and so does this article.

Westminster, 3d Oct. 1828.

X.