Chapter VII: Part 7

"The E. I. H. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange
phenomenon of poor ---- ---- whom I have known man and
madman twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself
by nine years and more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping,
half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive
chap; a little too fond of the creature; who isn't at times?
but ---- had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit
by ten o'clock next morning, and, unfortunately, in he
wandered the other morning, drunk with last night, and with a
superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed.
He came staggering under his double burthen, like trees in
Java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as
I have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face
literally as blue as the bluest firmament; some wretched calico
that he had moped his poor oozy front with had rendered up its
native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it,
but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale
of indigo, and set up a laugh which I did not think the lungs
of mortal man were competent to. It was like a thousand people
laughing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterward that the
whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own
sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. But ---- has laugh'd his
last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from
an abused income of £600 per annum to one-sixth of the sum,
after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. The quality of
mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped
not on him from heaven."

Lamb was a creature of ardent sympathies. His social affections were as fresh and tender as those of childhood; and in the subjoined extract from a letter to Wordsworth, these characteristics are admirably portrayed:

"Deaths overset one, and put one out long after the
recent grief. Two or three have died within this last two
twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. One
sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and
thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every
other: the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited.
It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of
sympathies. There's Capt. Burney gone! What fun has whist
now?--what matters it what you lead, if you can not fancy him
looking over you? One never hears any thing, but the image of
the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would
care to share the intelligence: thus one distributes oneself
about--and now for so many parts of me I have lost the market.
Common natures do not suffice me. Good people, as they are
called, won't serve. I want individuals. I am made up of queer
points, and I want so many answering needles. The going away of
friend does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so
much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make
a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A., but all A.'s part in
C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by
subtraction of interchangeables."

But gentle-spirited as he was, Lamb knew how to use the polished weapon of satire. Witness his 'Letter to Southey,' and the following keen sonnet upon the editor of the Quarterly Review. It is a revenge for the severely-expressed 'distaste of a small though acute mind, for an original power which it could not appreciate, and which disturbed the conventional associations of which it was master.' GIFFORD was originally a shoe-maker. The sonnet is entitled, 'SAINT CRISPIN to Mr. GIFFORD,' and dated 'Saint Crispin's Eve':

"All unadvised, and in an evil hour,
Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft
The lowly labors of the 'Gentle Craft'
For learned toils, which blood and spirit sour.
All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;
The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground:
And sweet content of mind is oftener found
In cobbler's parlor, than in critic's bower.
The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;
And better to this hour you had been plying
Tho obsequious awl, with well-waxed finger flying,
Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein:
Still teasing muses, which are still denying;
Making a stretching-leather of your brain."

The annexed ludicrous account of a temporary indisposition, was addressed to Bernard Barton, the well-known Quaker poet. It breathes the very spirit of 'Elia:'

"Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable
day-mare--'a whoreson lethargy,' Falstaff call it--an
indisposition to do any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a
suspension of vitality--an indifference to locality--a numb,
soporifical, good-for-nothingness--an ossification all over--an
oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind
stupor--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in
conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total
irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? This has been
for many weeks my lot, and my excuse; my fingers drag heavily
over this paper, and to my thinking it's three-and-twenty
furlongs from hence to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a
thing to say; nothing is of more importance than another; I am
flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge ----'s
wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when
the actors are off it; a cipher, an 0! I acknowledge life at
all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent
phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the world, and
the world is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I
don't think it worth the expense of candles. My wick hath a
thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale
suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing
interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now
coming out upon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up
his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet
cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told
me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say,
'will it?' I have not volition enough left to dot my i's,
much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my
brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and
they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a
Grub-street attic to let--not so much as a joint-stool left
in it; my hand writes, not I; just as chickens run about a
little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout,
of cholic, tooth-ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my
visual organs; pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence
of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an
obstinate cold--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill, and
suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing? Yet do I
try all I can to cure it; I try wine, and spirits, and smoking,
and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to
make me worse instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it
does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find
any visible amendment!

"It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this
time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps;
Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew
demurs at first at three half-crowns, but, on consideration
that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally
closes."

In the same vein is the following, written under similar circumstances:

"I have had my head and ears stuffed up with the east winds.
A continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the
spheres touched by some raw angel. Is it not George the Third
tuning the Hundredth Psalm? I get my music for nothing. But
the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw my stunnings.
Coleridge, writing to me a week or two since, began his note:
'_Summer has set in with his usual severity._' A cold summer
is all I know disagreeable in cold. I do not mind the utmost
rigour of real winter, but these smiling hypocritical Mays
wither me to death. My head has been ringing chaos, like
the day the winds were made, before they submitted to the
discipline of a weather-cock, before the quarters were made.
In the street, with the blended noises of life about me, I
hear, and my head is lightened; but in a room, the hubbub comes
back, and I am deaf as a sinner. Did I tell you of a pleasant
sketch Hood has done, which he calls, '_Very deaf indeed?_'
It is of a good-natured, stupid-looking old gentleman, whom a
foot-pad has stopped, but for his extreme deafness cannot make
him understand what he wants. The unconscious old gentleman is
extending his ear-trumpet very complacently, and the fellow is
firing a pistol into it to make him hear, but the ball will
pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his sensorium.
I choose a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisses when I
bend down to write. I can hardly read a book, for _I miss that
small soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises_
(almost imperceptibly to you) _in a silent reader_. _I seem too
deaf to see what I read._ But with a touch of returning zephyr,
my head will melt."

It is in a letter to the same staid correspondent, that we find the following reflections on the fate of Fauntleroy, who was executed many years since in London. It is 'a strange mingling of humor and solemn truth:'

"And now, my dear Sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe
of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. The fate of the
unfortunate Fauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast
reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity
of situation, are exposed to a similarity of temptation. My
very style seems to myself to become more impressive than
usual, with the charge of them. Who that standeth, knoweth
but he may yet fall? Your hands as yet, I am most willing to
believe, have never deviated into other's property. You think
it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence;
but so thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many beside
him, who at last have expiated as he hath done. You are as
yet upright; but you are a banker, or at least the next thing
to it. I feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass
through your hands, sometimes to a great amount. If in an
unguarded hour----but I will hope better. Consider the scandal
it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would
go to see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the
fate of a Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect
it would have on the sale of your poems alone, not to mention
higher considerations! I tremble, I am sure, at myself, when
I think that so many poor victims of the law, at one time of
their life, made as sure of never being hanged, as I, in my
own presumption, am ready, too ready, to do myself. What are
we better than they? Do we come into the world with different
necks? Is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are
we unstrangulable, I ask you? Think on these things. I am
shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their
resemblance to the ape tribe, (which is something,) but for
the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking,
fingering, etc."

Here is a capital programme for those losel scouts whose 'tales of the crusades' which are waged against the canine species, generally fill our newspapers in the dog-days. We have no doubt that similar suggestions to those here thrown out, have been acted upon by many a dog-hater, in the fervid summer solstice, what time a worse virus than the hydrophobic was raging in his brain. Lamb is inquiring after his adopted dog, 'Dash:'

"Goes he muzzled, or _aperto ore_? Are his intellects sound,
or does he wander a little in _his_ conversation? You cannot
be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The
first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him. All
the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers;
but I protest they seem to me very rational and collected.
But nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are
not used to them. Try him with hot water: if he won't lick
it up, it is a sign--he does not like it. Does his tail wag
horizontally, or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate
of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful?
I mean when he is pleased--for otherwise there is no judging.
You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet?
If he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see
if it was the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had
it at one time; but that was in _Hyder_-Ally's time. Do you get
paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull
out his teeth, (if he would let you,) and then you need not
mind if he were as mad as a bedlamite."

There is an adroit satire upon epitaphs--certificates of good character given to persons on going to a new place, who oftentimes had none in the places they left--in the annexed fragment from a letter enclosing an acrostic:

"I am afraid I shall sicken you of acrostics, but this last was
written _to order_. I beg you to have inserted in your country
paper, something like this advertisement: 'To the nobility,
gentry, and others about Bury:--C. Lamb respectfully informs
his friends and the public in general, that he is leaving off
business in the acrostic line, as he is going into an entirely
new line. Rebuses and charades done as usual, and upon the
old terms. Also, epitaphs to suit the memory of any person
deceased.'"

A few original anecdotes of Lamb must close our notice for the present. The first dry specimen was doubtless suggested by the closing couplet of a London street-ballad, wherein is set forth the ultra fickleness of a female 'lovyer:'

'And there I spied that faithless she,
A fryin' sassengers for he!'

"One day, at the exhibition of the Royal Academy, I was sitting
on a form, looking at the catalogue, and answering some young
people about me who had none, or spared themselves the trouble
of consulting it. There was a large picture of Prospero and
Miranda; and I had just said, 'It is by _Shee_;' when a voice
near me said, 'Would it not be more grammatical to say by
_her_?' I looked, it was Mr. Lamb.

"He went with a party down to my brother Charles's ship, in
which the officers gave a ball to their friends. My brother
hired a vessel to take us down to it, and some one of the
company asked its name. On hearing it was the _Antelope_, Mr.
Lamb cried out, 'Don't name it; I have such a respect for
my aunt, I cannot bear to think of her doing such a foolish
action!'

"A widow-friend of Lamb having opened a preparatory school for
children at Camden Town, said to him, 'I live so far from town
I must have a sign, I think you call it, to show that I teach
children.' 'Well,' he replied, 'you can have nothing better
than '_The Murder of the Innocents_!'

"A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was telling him that eight
people dined at the top of the spire of that edifice; upon
which he remarked, that they must be very '_sharp set_!'

"An old woman, on a cold, bleak day, begged of him for charity:
'Ah! Sir,' said she, 'I have seen better days.' 'So have I,'
said Lamb; meaning literally one not so rainy and overcast as
the one on which she begged.

"Mrs. H---- was sitting on a sofa one day, between Mr. Montague
and Mr. Lamb. The latter spoke to her, but all her attention
was given to the other party. At last they ceased talking, and
turning round to Mr. Lamb, she asked what it was he had been
saying? He replied, 'Ask Mr. Montague, for it went in at one
ear and out at another.'

"Coleridge one day said to him: 'Charles, did you ever hear me
_preach_?' 'I never heard you do any thing else,' said Lamb."

We shall discuss anew these teeming volumes, when the American edition (which it is to be hoped will possess the portraits of the English) shall have appeared.

BRISTOL ACADEMY, TAUNTON, (MASS.)--A catalogue of the officers, teachers, and pupils of this institution, now before us, affords very favorable evidence of the prosperity which it enjoys, under the supervision of its able preceptor, J. N. BELLOWS, Esq. It already numbers nearly an hundred pupils, in the male and female departments, embracing residents in various quarters of the country. The plan of instruction, set forth in the appendix, is an excellent one; 'uniting, as far as practicable, pleasure with study, yet not to the neglect of strictness of discipline, and thoroughness in the business of instruction,' in which the art of teaching, as a profession, is included, in a separate department.

FOOTNOTE:

[17] The tone and manner of a second communication from 'HONESTUS,' (perused, it is proper to add, since this article was placed in type,) induce the opinion, that something of personal feeling and private pique is mingled with his 'enlarged regard for the progress of musical science in this country.'

THE DRAMA.

PARK THEATRE--MR. FORREST.--TWO succeeding engagements of Mr. FORREST, have given us an opportunity of witnessing his efforts in all of his old, and in some (to him) new characters. Othello, Damon, Richard III., Metamora, Spartacus, Lear, Carwin, in the 'Orphan of Geneva,' and even Hamlet, have in turn been presented, through the impersonations of Mr. Forrest. Among these, there are some characters which long ago he made his own, and which have not since found any other representative. Such are Metamora, Spartacus, and perhaps Damon; Othello and Lear, too, had been previously attempted by Mr. Forrest, and found among his many friends enthusiastic admirers. This last engagement, however, has presented this gentleman in two new characters, Richard and Hamlet. Of the first of these, it shall be our province to speak in this paper.

Mr. Forrest has challenged criticism upon his conception of the character of the Duke of Gloster, by his remarks contained in a published letter to a friend, written during his English visit. In this letter he boldly affirms, that the ideas which EDMUND KEAN always held of the personage which he represented as the Duke of Gloster, were erroneous, in one great particular, and that therefore _he_ should portray the crook-backed tyrant in a light quite different from that in which Kean presented him. This error of Kean consisted, it seems, in supposing the royal cut-throat to have been a too _serious_ villain; in presenting the early part of his career in a shade too sombre. According to Mr. Forrest, the wily duke was rather inclined to be jocose in his butcheries; and he should therefore, in his personation of the character, make the jester a sort of _basso-relievo_ to the hard, black surface of his marble heart.

Now we admire originality, whether it be displayed on the stage, at the bar, in the pulpit, on the canvass, or in books. Whether the original be a cobbler, or an architect, we hail his advent with joy and gratulation. That clever artist, who first conceived the interesting metamorphosis whereby a sliver of wood could be converted into a pumpkin-seed, deserves, indeed, more praise for his singular ingenuity, than for any lasting blessing thereby conferred upon mankind. Nor can we affirm, that the kindred hand which first transposed the same material into those cherished condiments of eastern Ind, y'clept nutmegs, has claim to any higher reward; yet were both these worthies original thinkers, and thereby entitled to the respect due to genius. To endeavor to trace back some great original thought to the impulse which first opened the way to its creation; to search for the early germ, no bigger perhaps than a grain of mustard-seed, out of which the towering tree sprang up in all its original greatness, is a subject which must always engage the attention, and employ the research, of the admirers of genius. We have therefore endeavored, by the most patient and diligent study, both of Shakspeare and his commentators, to discover the ground upon which Mr. Forrest formed his original reading of the Duke of Gloster, or the hint, if possible, from which he snatched his conception of the murdering duke's jocular disposition. The only peg which we can possibly discover, whereon we suppose Mr. Forrest might hang his wonderful originality, is comprised in that line wherein the crafty Gloster, gloating over that devilish hypocrisy with which he is enabled to cloak his monstrous villanies, exclaims:

'For I can smile, and murder while I smile.'

Mr. Forrest was no doubt struck with this passage. It seemed to him to contain the germ of a mighty thought, and in his aspirations for immortality, he has given a liberal meaning to the passage, and rendered it thus:

'For I can laugh, and murder while I laugh!'

The spirit of originality seized upon his desires and his faculties at the same moment; and with a determination to wither at a blast the laurels of Kean, Cook, John Kemble, Booth, and a host of less distinguished worthies, he has, in the magnitude of his wisdom, declared them 'sumphs' in their ignorance of Shakspeare, and himself the only true representative of the most powerful of the bard's creations!

'Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought;
'What power,' he cries, 'what power these wonders wrought!'
Soul! what thou seek'st is in thee; look and find,
Thy monster meets his likeness in thy mind.'

We were truly inclined to give Mr. Forrest credit for too much good sense, to be tempted into any such absurd extravagance as he has been guilty of, in attempting to foist his new reading of Richard upon an intelligent public. He must have discarded all authority, and taken it upon himself to settle this question with the world; and he _has_ settled it, in a way most lamentable for his judgment. The first three acts of Richard were really pitiable. There was a lack of every thing which we had long supposed belonged to the character. His sarcasms--those biting sentences which Kean made so withering--were turned to absolute jests--regular Joe Millers in blank verse! Gloster murdered in joke, and all his villanies became, as Mr. Forrest presented them, no more than the peccadilloes of Punch. The scene with Queen Anne had no propriety whatever. It was not the wily Gloster, whose tongue could 'wheedle with the devil,' but the gay, slashing Corinthian, paying his devoirs to a moonlight Cyprian. The Duke of Gloster was a gentleman, bloody-minded enough, truly, but with the polish of a court about him, and an air of nobility as inseparable as his hump; both of which Mr. Forrest discarded long before the Duke of Gloster gave up the ghost. The last two acts, and especially the very last, were powerful, so far as physical effort could render them powerful. The tent-scene was terrific in this respect; it was like the 'tic doloureux,' deafening and dull. It was heavy physical force, with very little of genius to thrill or to startle; a sort of artificial thunder, without the lightning. Strange that any can be found to uphold such extravagance; but rant and fustian seem the order of the day; and he whose lungs are the stoutest, seems the victor among modern tragedians.

'The rabble knows not where our dramas shine,
But when the actor roars, 'By Jove! that's fine!'

* * * * *

ELLEN TREE.--The finest comedies in the language, presented to us, in their principal characters, through the acting of Miss ELLEN TREE, have proved, during the last engagement of this lady, that a true taste for the legitimate drama yet exists in full force in America, however it may have degenerated on the other side of the water. 'Rosalind,' 'Beatrice,' 'Lady Teazle,' 'Viola,' as well as 'Ion,' 'Jane Shore,' 'Clarisse,' in the _Barrack-Room_, 'Christine,' and a multitude of other characters, as varied in their kind as these, have offered a rich intellectual treat to all who can appreciate the chaste, ungarnished beauties of the drama. It would be superfluous to speak of Miss Tree's merit in these characters. To us, at least, she has become identified with them all; and in speaking of her performances, we must say that the task can only be a repetition of that even strain of unadulterated praise, which, justly awarded, belongs only to perfection. We look in vain for some fault, some discrepancy, some point which might be improved upon. All is so near the _beau ideal_ of her art, that we must, in omitting all censure, either confess ourselves wanting in judgment, or at once acknowledge Miss Ellen Tree a being more perfect on the stage, than any we know or can conceive of, off of it. Perhaps the greatest of her many merits is the remarkable purity of her utterance, and the true sound and meaning with which she clothes the language of the author. In the classic phrases of 'Ion,' this beauty is prominent; the choice words which form the finished sentences of this gem of English literature, are sounded full in every letter. Vowels and consonants receive their measured justice, and every line is meted out with its just cadence, imparting to our much-abused English a quality as free from blemish as it is capable of sustaining. In common or less classical compositions, the words are endued with a strength and beauty, which are borrowed from her perfection of utterance. There is a roundness and a rich purity in her pronunciation, which gives a finish and fullness to the sound, that is really musical. She is a worthy mistress of the Queen's English.

* * * * *

MADAME CARADORI ALLAN.--A new star in _our_ musical world has shone upon us during the past month; not the less dazzlingly, perhaps, from its foreign lustre. Mde. ALLAN possesses a _soprano_ voice, of a light quality. She sings with great apparent ease, and there is a finish to every note, worthy of the highest praise. Her execution is graceful in the extreme. The most rapid notes glide as distinctly through her voice as the most slow and measured. There is neither hesitation in the one, nor hurry in the other. All are in exact time, and evince in their execution a degree of study seldom effected, and a taste fully competent to seize upon and display the most exquisite beauties of the art. Her manner is evidently that of one unaccustomed to the stage; that of a sensitive and delicate gentlewoman, suddenly placed in a situation new to her, but embarrassing only from its novelty. If, as has been asserted, Mde. Allan's first appearance here was really her _début_ in an opera made up of English words, she certainly has great reason to congratulate herself on the success which attended even her acting of the part of 'Rosina.' The execution of the opening song, the 'Unâ Voce,' first in English, and then, in obedience to an _encore_, in Italian, was truly as beautiful as we can fancy it in the power of her peculiar voice to make it. It was certainly sufficient to merit one of the most rapturous bursts of applause that was ever listened to. The other music of her part was equally well executed, if we except those pieces where low contralto notes were to be sounded. Here, of course, the artiste could do nothing; and she showed her good sense by attempting nothing. We particularly noticed this peculiarity in the concerted piece at the close of the first act. Having no contralto notes in her voice, it was impossible for her to express the music belonging to this scene. A repetition of 'The Barber,' on the next night, gave us an opportunity of witnessing the same beauties, and the same slight defects. There was, as might have been expected, less embarrassment than on the previous evening; while the acting, and the stage-business altogether, was more easy and natural. 'Love in a Village' displayed the high faculties of Mde. Allan to still greater advantage, and certainly, with one glorious exception, we never heard the melodies which belong to 'Rosetta' more exquisitely given. There were two simple ballads introduced, which, in her way of expressing them, made perfect gems of the hacknied 'Coming through the Rye,' and 'I'm Over Young to Marry.' It is the peculiar province of genius to hallow all it breathes upon; and surely, in a musical way, this truth was never more clearly exemplified. We are sorry to say, however, that with the exception of Mr. PLACIDE, Mde. Allan has been most wretchedly supported. Mr. JONES sang worse than ever, and acted no better. Mr. RICHINGS is not equal to the parts which we honestly believe he is _obliged_ to sustain in opera. His exertions, however, as 'Hawthorn,' would, on this particular evening, have been entitled to less censure, if he had taken the trouble to learn his part. The minor characters in opera are shamefully executed at this house. They were bad enough when the WOODS and BROUGH were to be supported, but infinitely worse now. There are singers enough in the country to make up this deficiency. Why are they not engaged? There is Mr. BROUGH for the 'Basils,' Mr. LATHAM for the 'Figaros;' there is Mr. HORN, who _can sing_, if he cannot _act_ the 'Elvinos'; and surely an 'Almaviva' and a 'Hawthorn' might be found, to fill the places of those who now disgrace these characters at the Park. With two or three exceptions, (and among them, in justice, we must name Mr. HAYDEN,) the most exquisite music is played by an admirable orchestra to no better purpose than to show the sad deficiency of the singers. Of Mde. Caradori Allan's performance of the 'Somnambulist,' we are not prepared to speak fully; as, in consequence of the early hour at which this Magazine is put to press, we have, 'at this present writing,' only seen her first appearance in the character; when, from over-exertion, perhaps, in the second act, she was unable to go through with the third as satisfactorily as we may hope practice will enable her to do hereafter.

* * * * *

THE NATIONAL THEATRE, under its present management, is second to none in the United States in the varied talent and efficiency of its acting company, in scenic effect, general good order, the attraction and excellence of its entertainments, and the number and respectability of its audiences. It has uncommon materials for either tragedy, comedy, or opera. 'Macbeth' and 'Othello,' for example, the 'School for Scandal,' 'Cure for the Heart-ache,' etc., could not probably be produced more effectively in any particular, even at Drury Lane. Othello, especially, with J. W. WALLACK, VANDENHOFF, BROWNE, ABBOTT, Miss WHEATLEY, and Mrs. SEFTON, in the principal characters, is really a rare treat. It is so much like SHAKSPEARE's Othello, that we think even the great bard himself would recognise it; which is more than can be said of most portraitures of his splendid creations. In 'Macbeth,' too, we opine that Mr. Vandenhoff is scarcely excelled, even by Macready--still less by any other living tragedian; and at neither of the two great London theatres, where we saw Macready in this character about a year since, was the play otherwise better done than at the National. In his personations of Hamlet, Iago, and Cato, Mr. Vandenhoff is also preeminently great, if not unequalled. He has strongly confirmed his reputation as an artist of the first order in his profession, and he is, moreover, as we are assured by those who know him, a gentleman of sterling acquirements, and unassuming worth. In person, he is of medium height, with an intellectual and expressive face, and a voice at once pleasing and powerful. An emphasis sometimes rather too _drawling_, is the only exception we can make to his usually chaste and judicious elocution.

A review of the performances at the 'WOODWORTH BENEFIT,' some wholesome advice to Mr. GANN, for over-action, a notice at large of 'The English Gentleman,' (a most sterling play,) together with a report upon the laughable and admirably-acted piece, 'Gulliver in Liliput,' although in type, are reluctantly, yet unavoidably, omitted.

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THE AMERICAN THEATRE, Bowery, has presented to large audiences, since our last notice, a melodramatic piece called the 'Bronze Horse,' the scenery, machinery, dresses, and decorations of which are said to have been unequalled by any thing hitherto seen at this establishment. Its great and continued popularity must be taken as substantial evidence of its merit as a spectacle.

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THE OLYMPIC continues, in an unpretending way, to increase its reputation as a quiet and well-conducted theatre, where one may find the lighter attractions of the drama admirably presented, by actors who understand their business, supervised by managers who know theirs, and attend to it. It is a capital place wherein to pass a leisure hour agreeably.

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MR. SIMMONS' LECTURES ON ELOCUTION.--We have had the gratification, since our last number, of attending a course of lectures upon elocution, given at the 'Stuyvesant Institute,' by WILLIAM H. SIMMONS, Esq., of Boston; and we are confident we speak the unanimous opinion of his auditory, among whom were many of our most distinguished citizens, when we say, that for sound reasoning, felicitous manner, and richness of voice, Mr. SIMMONS' equal has not been heard in this meridian for many a long year. He expounded clearly and analytically the natural laws of vocal expression, according to the method pursued by Dr. RUSH, in his 'Philosophy of the Human Voice;' exemplifying, at the same time, the practical effect and application of all the important tones, inflexions, and modes of emphasis, by a variety of readings and recitations, which were invariably received with the liveliest demonstrations of admiration, on the part of his hearers. We sincerely hope that the capable and accomplished lecturer, and we must add orator, also, may find sufficient inducement to deliver a second course; and as there is abundant room for improvement, both in our public and colloquial elocution, we trust, moreover, that the private lessons in his useful and delightful art will be liberally attended. We are glad to learn that he is giving a course of lectures and lessons at the Episcopal Theological Seminary; and that he is about to gratify a large body of young men, engaged in professional studies and mercantile pursuits, by the repetition of his course, at Clinton Hall. Mr. SIMMONS' address is the Astor-House.

LITERARY RECORD.

TOKENS OF THE HOLIDAYS.--We feel paternal yearnings, when we sit down, as now, by our round-table, to draw around us our great family of readers, that they may admire with us the various gems of art with which it is literally overloaded. Before us, gleaming in gold, crimson, and purple, rich blue and velvet green, and affluent in the finest engravings, are the ENGLISH ANNUALS, for 1838, which, with their American brotherhood, will very soon, we venture to predict, collect some of the superfluities of this 'money-voiding town.' Love-tokens are they, for the tasteful swain, and remembrancers from the generous-hearted, to those who stand on the top-scale of their friendship's ladder. Annuals, both foreign and domestic, are every year improving. From 'combinations of show and emptiness,' they have come to be the medium of the highest efforts of art; while green-sick sonnetteers and small tale-writers are succeeded by minds more capable of entertaining the public. We can do little more than _catalogue_ the rich stores before us.

FINDEN'S TABLEAUX, in imperial quarto, may be placed first in the list, since it is superb, beyond all former precedent. It is intended to represent the peculiar female beauty of different countries, or provinces, with a characteristic back-ground of scenery, and adjuncts in keeping. 'England,' 'Andalusia,' 'Florence,' 'Egypt,' 'Ceylon,' 'America,' 'Georgia,' 'Scotland,' and 'Castile,' have each their representatives; and what a galaxy of beauty would that court present, which should combine in one assembly these ambassadors of loveliness! The letter-press illustrations, in prose and verse, mainly by Miss MITFORD, we need not say, are worthy the pictorial department, and the reputation of the author of 'Our Village.' The 'FLOWERS OF LOVELINESS', edited by Miss LANDON, also in the imperial quarto form, is a very pretty volume, but less beautiful, as it strikes us, than its predecessor. It is dedicated to the Queen, in a clever acrostic upon her name, in four-line stanzas, each verse of which is introduced by an ornamental letter, representing a flower; a pretty and feminine device. Female beauty is made to represent the Clematis, Hyacinth, Water-Lily, Night-blooming Convolvulus, Poppy, Canterbury Cathedral, Pansy, 'Marvel of Peru,' the Laurel, Iris, etc. HEATH'S BOOK OF BEAUTY contains thirteen engravings, portraits of several women of nobility, and fancy pictures. Its externals are gorgeous. The binding is of cerulean satin, richly embroidered with thread of changeful golden tissue. It has a few stories, and some good poetry. LADY BLESSINGTON does the editorial honors. 'CHILDREN OF THE NOBILITY' is a work in the large quarto. The engravings are by HEATH, from drawings by CHALON. One or two of them are exquisite--the portrait of LADY MARY HOWARD, for example. There are some pretty children, too, and 'extraordinary ordinary'-looking othersome, with legs like upright nine-pins, and shod hoofs. Edited by Mrs. FAIRLIE. 'BEAUTIES OF COSTUME'--HEATH again. This is a series of female figures, in the dresses of ancient times--Egyptian, Scottish, Court of Louis XII., Bernese, Milanese, Russian, English Peasant, Swiss, Court of Charles VII., Persian, Scottish Highland, etc. Descriptions by LEITCH RITCHIE. We can say little for the ENGLISH ANNUAL. Old plates, which have been served up to the British public in the 'Court Journal,' if we do not mistake, are scarcely worthy of being ushered forth as original embellishments. The 'ORIENTAL' has twenty-two spirited engravings of 'Scenes in India,' many of which are very superior. The name of Rev. HOBART CAUNTER is a guarantee for the character of the letter-press portion of the work. The London '_Christian Keepsake_' is worthy of all praise, both as to matter and embellishments. A portrait of Mrs. STEWART, (wife of Rev. C. S. STEWART, of the American Navy,) late missionary to the Sandwich Islands, from a painting by INGRAHAM, of this city, is one of the gems of the volume. HEATH's 'PICTURESQUE ANNUAL' is devoted to 'Scenes in Ireland.' They are well selected, and the engravings are exceedingly soft and clear. The descriptive matter is from the pen of LEITCH RITCHIE. Beside these, there are 'Italy, France, and Switzerland,' in two large quarto volumes, the plates by PROUT and HARDING, and the illustrations by THOMAS ROSCOE; FISHER's 'DRAWING-ROOM SCRAP-BOOK,' with its usual quality and quantity of engravings, edited by Miss LANDON; 'Midland Counties Tourist,' illustrating hoary ruins, romantic castles, and picturesque towns and landscapes, in the counties of Chester, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Rutland, and Lincoln, with descriptions historical and topographical, 'Illustrations of Scotland and the Waverly Novels, etc. WILEY AND PUTNAM, Broadway.

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GOOD OUT OF EVIL.--'Selections from the Court Reports, originally published in the BOSTON MORNING POST, from 1834 to 1837. Arranged and Revised by the Reporter of the Post.'--The writer of this work is surely chief of the _adepti_ in his art, for art it is. He is a prëeminent 'dab' at his business; uniting grace of composition with a keen sense of the humorous, and the reflections of a heart open to the influence of generous emotions, and full of sympathy for the unfortunates, whose abandonment to temptation he records. As contrasting examples of pathos and fun, we would instance the picture of maternal affection, in the story of the three juvenile book-thieves, and the cool knavery of the _omnium-gatherum_ varlet, whose systematic pilferings were directed by a written programme, as: 'Visit Bailey's Female High School--_scrutinize_;' 'Get books from library--_valuable_;' 'Go to the theatre--_once_;' 'Go to the Museum, night and day; _criticise, and get every thing I can_;' 'Visit Horticultural Rooms--_and get things_;' 'Get some pocket-handkerchiefs--_gratis_,' etc. These 'Selections' will amuse a dull hour passing well. The reader will find the book fruitful of fun or instruction, open it wheresoever he may. Boston: OTIS, BROADERS AND COMPANY.

'THE ARETHUSA.'--Such is the title of a naval story, in two volumes, by Captain CHAMIER, R. N., author of 'Ben Brace,' 'Life of a Sailor,' etc. In our judgment, it is his best work. If not as a whole, certainly in particular scenes it has not been surpassed by any previous effort of the author. The wreck of the Tribune, the naval warfare, the pestilence at Jamaica, and many other detached scenes, which might be mentioned, are most vividly portrayed. We would counsel Captain Chamier, however, not to meddle with character of which he knows nothing more than may be conveyed in the terms, 'I reckon,' 'I guess,' and 'I calculate,' in endless iteration. His 'Corncob' is an imaginary anomaly, and has no counterpart in America. Philadelphia; E. L. CAREY AND A. HART. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

'REVIEWERS REVIEWED:'--BY THE AUTHOR OF 'PELAYO.'--This is a little volume of seventy-two pages--dedication, introduction, argument, text, notes, and appendix, all counted--and is facetiously denominated by the young lady-author a 'Satire.' The editors of the 'Courier,' 'Gazette,' 'Commercial,' and 'Mirror' journals, together with the KNICKERBOCKER, are the victims--because they could not admire 'Pelayo.' For our own poor part, the force of the attack has stunned us. We know not what to say. Also, we wist not what to do. 'Where,' (to adopt the kindred language of our fair satirist's illustrious archetype, 'Rosa Matilda,')

'Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstacy of wo!
Bear us safe, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow!'

MISSIONARY ENTERPRISES.--Messrs. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY have published a handsome volume, of some five hundred pages, entitled 'A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Sea Islands; with Remarks upon the Natural History of the Islands, Origin, Languages, Traditions, and Usages of the Inhabitants. By JOHN WILLIAMS, of the London Missionary Society.' We regret that we are compelled to advert so briefly to this excellent work, in gathering the materials for which, the author travelled one hundred thousand miles, and expended upward of eighteen years. The book is full upon all the heads mentioned in its title, and is illustrated by numerous engravings on wood. The style is simple and flowing, and the details invariably interesting, not less to the general than the Christian reader. We were struck with a fact recorded toward the close of the volume, illustrative of that divine purpose in nature of which a correspondent elsewhere speaks, in the present number. In many of the coral islands of the South Sea, there are neither streams nor springs; and were it not for the cocoa-nut, the inhabitants would perish. On a sultry day, when the very ground burns with heat, the natives climb this fruit-tree, and in each unripe nut find a pint or more of a grateful lemonade-like water, as refreshing as if taken from a spring.

'SCIENCE MADE EASY:'--'Being a Familiar Introduction to the Principles of Chemistry, Mechanics, Hydrostatics, and Pneumatics.'--We took up this corpulent dictionary-quarto, under the impression that it was one of those scanty and superficial '_made-easy_' books, good-naturedly intended to instil dull truths into unwary understandings, by alternate layers of _utile_ and _dulce_, but capable in reality of very little good. Its perusal has agreeably disappointed us. The author has not alone skirmished on the frontier of a few of the sciences, but he has drawn a small array of them into close order, in such wise that they may be surveyed with ease and expedition, and made to fructify without a world of unnecessary trouble. The volume is illustrated by numerous wood-cuts.

MISS LESLIE'S 'PENCIL SKETCHES.'--This volume contains all of Miss LESLIE's fugitive pieces which have appeared since the publication of her second series of 'Pencil Sketches.' Every article has been carefully revised by the author, and improved, as she believes, by numerous alterations and additions. The following are the contents: 'The Red Box, or Scenes at the General Wayne;' 'Constance Allerton, or the Mourning Suits;' 'The Officers, a Story of the Last War;' 'The Serenades, and Dream of Songs:' 'The Old Farm-House;' 'That Gentleman, or Pencillings on Ship-board;' 'Charles Loring, a Tale of the Revolution;' and 'Alphonsine.' Aside from the natural ease and conversational ability, peculiar to all Miss LESLIE's productions, the reader may always rely upon a main object of intellectual or moral good.

'THE HAWK CHIEF.'--This 'Tale of the Indian Country,' by JOHN T. IRVING, JR., author of 'Indian Sketches,' is too clever a production to be despatched in a few lines; but we are compelled to postpone a more enlarged notice of the work, until some future occasion. In the matter of literary provender, it seems latterly to be either 'a feast or a famine.' Our hands are now full, which but recently were quite empty, of intellectual wares. We shall discuss them in order, when space and leisure serve.

ELEVENTH VOLUME OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.--We cannot permit the closing number of the present volume of this Magazine to go forth to our readers, without holding a brief and familiar tête-à-tête with them, in relation to its prospects, literary and otherwise. For the past, let it speak for itself. We have accomplished all we could, and our friends are kind enough to admit that it has been beyond what was promised, and more than satisfactory. For the future, we have rich stores of valuable and entertaining matter, not only from our present unequalled corps of contributors, but from several writers, akin to the best of them, whose acquaintance our readers have not hitherto made. We can promise, that the more solid articles which the next volume will contain, will neither be too voluminous to be read, nor too dull to be useful; that they will be varied and novel in subject, and attractive in manner. Eschewing politics and polemics, our readers will escape the long-winded discussions to which they so frequently give rise; and they may rely, moreover, upon a faithful discharge of our critical responsibilities, uninfluenced by partizan or sectarian feeling. With articles of a lighter description, we shall, as heretofore, be well supplied. By 'light articles,' we do not mean silly love-stories, and inflated, finical rhapsodies, nor the aimless efforts of writers mounted on airy stilts of abstraction, but matter capable of improving while it amuses; that shall 'fortify like a cordial,' and be productive of sweet blood and generous spirits; reviving and animating the dead calm of idle life, entertaining the leisure of the active, and relieving the toil of the laborious; now beguiling, perchance, pain of body, or diverting anxiety of mind; and happily again, it may be, filling the place of bad thoughts, or suggesting better. We do not anticipate that every paper will please every reader. Our articles are so many dishes, our readers guests; that which one admires, perhaps another rejects; but we shall take especial care, that none may be without something to enlighten his understanding, and gratify his fancy or taste. The pericraniums are not disfurnished, good reader, from which so many good things have heretofore been evoked for your edification and profit; nor will they be, by some score or two, the only sources of your future intellectual gratification. You will believe us, when we hold out to you these tokens of good, since we have never deceived you. Judge ye, if we have not 'fought our way to your good graces valiantly, and showed our passport at every barrier.'

Our success is abundantly satisfactory, so far as reputation and an increasing subscription-list are concerned. 'The pressure,' however, which has borne so heavily upon all business, and all professions, has not been without its influence upon the pecuniary interests of this Magazine. Many of our _unthinking_ readers--we will harbor no worse opinion of them--unwilling to curtail their expenses, by stopping their subscriptions, have been quite ready to lessen them by not _paying_ for a work which they could not bring themselves to forego. To such we have only to say, they cannot be fully aware of the injustice of which they are guilty, nor of the unmitigated exertions which they so illy requite. The 'never-ending, still beginning' labor which is going on for their benefit and amusement, long after their heads are upon their pillows, or while they are indulging in the relaxations from toil which are denied to the less fortunate laborer in the literary vineyard, should be promptly rewarded; and we cannot but hope that each delinquent under whose eye this paragraph may fall, will yield tardy justice to those who have wrought long and faithfully for him. Having said thus much, explanatory, denunciatory, and expostulatory, we enter upon a new volume with an enhanced patronage, enlarged hopes, and a settled determination to lose no opportunity, and to spare no labor nor expense, which may increase the reputation of this Magazine, and widen the already far-reaching boundary of its circulation and influence.

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ERRATA.--In the poem 'Floral Astrology,' page 498, the word _us_ should follow the final '_under_,' in the third line of the third stanza. In the Lay of the Madman,' p. 518, the seventh line from the close should read, 'They _tremble_ and dart through my every vein.'

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Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors were repaired. Valid archaic spellings (e.g. redoutable, matresses) were retained.

Errata changes stated at the end of the document were made directly in the text.