Chapter M: E. H (2)

'HE had, by his ill conduct, lost the esteem of his great
master, Sir THOMAS LAWRENCE, who was the intimate friend of JOHN
KEMBLE; and the latter had in consequence resolutely refused to
sit to him for his portrait as 'Cardinal Wolsey' in the picture
alluded to. 'Mrs. SIDDONS and CHARLES and STEPHEN KEMBLE had
sat to the artist, but the great tragedian was immovable. At
length a friend of the painter (Mr. THOMAS WELSH, the celebrated
singing-master,) who had received many marks of attention and
kindness from Mr. KEMBLE, and who had great confidence in the
force of his influence with him, waited upon Mr. KEMBLE at
his residence in Great Russel-street. He was shown into the
library, and was most cordially received: 'My dear TOM, to
what am I indebted for the favor of this visit?' 'My dear Sir,
I come a humble suppliant to you, and I really don't know how
to commence.' 'Well, well; make excuses for your modesty: and
then, my good friend, come to the point.' The commencement was
auspicious; but the first plunge in a cold-bath is always hard
to take. 'I assure you, Mr. KEMBLE, I feel most grateful for
your kind reception; and if I could only hope the favor I am
going to ask----' 'Pooh! pooh! you know, Tom, I always told you,
from a boy, there was nothing you could ask of me that I would
refuse you. Now say what it is you wish; consider it as done;
and I really am very much occupied; so, to the point, to the
point, TOM.' 'Oh, Sir, you have made me the happiest person in
the world. Will you be kind enough to sit to Mr. HARLOWE for
your portrait?' In an instant a deep cloud passed over the noble
countenance of the great actor; and deliberately taking up his
snuff-box, he applied a large pinch to his nose, and quickly
replied: 'My dear TOM I'll see you d--d first!' Notwithstanding
his denial, however, the Cardinal is one of the best portraits,
and was caught only by occasional glances from the orchestra,
during Mr. KEMBLE'S performance.'

At Edinburgh, Mr. ABBOTT would seem to have attained great popularity. He mingled in the best circles of the Northern metropolis, and was for some days a guest of Sir WALTER SCOTT. He narrates many pleasant anecdotes connected with his engagements in 'Auld Reekie;' and among them is the following, which is capital:

'I HAD no personal knowledge of STEPHEN KEMBLE, but I cannot
refrain from mentioning a circumstance which happened when
he was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre. The exiled family
of the Bourbons were residing at the Palace of Holyrood, and
great respect and attention were shown by the nobility in
the neighborhood to the unfortunate descendants of a long
line of kings. Mr. KEMBLE thought the patronage of the Comte
D'ARTOIS, afterward CHARLES the Tenth, would be a source of
great attraction. Application was made at the palace, and with
success. His Royal Highness left the selection of the play
to the manager, who fixed upon 'Henry the Fourth,' for the
purpose of exhibiting himself in his own popular character of
Sir JOHN FALSTAFF. One can scarcely conceive a duller play
for a Frenchman, almost ignorant of the English language, and
wholly unable to enter into the subtilties of such a being as
the Fat Knight. The great desideratum, however, was obtained.
The house was crowded, and the manager was satisfied. His Royal
Highness bore the infliction in a most exemplary manner, and
retired amidst the respectful greetings of the audience. A
week had hardly elapsed, when KEMBLE (probably not from any
selfish motive, but with the laudable view of affording some
amusement to the illustrious exile,) again presented himself at
Holyrood, and suggested another visit to his theatre. The Comte
D'ARTOIS received him most graciously; indeed, it was not in his
nature to do otherwise, for he was one of the most accomplished
gentlemen in Europe. He declined the invitation, however, in
nearly the following words: 'I am vara mosh oblige, Monsieur
KEMBLE; it was vara nice, indeed; I laugh mosh; _bot von sosh
fun, it ees enoff_!'

This dubious compliment of the Count is not unlike the praise awarded by a polite French officer to a battalion of rather inferior provincial volunteers in England. He was pressed for his opinion, which he gave as follows: 'Gentlemens, I 'av seen de Garde-Royal and de Garde-NAPOLEON; I 'av seen de Russ and de Pruss; _but by Gar! I 'av nevare see such troops as dese!--no, nevare!_' With the two passages annexed, the one describing an annoyance to which popular actors are not unfrequently exposed, and the other the tricks of which they are sometimes made the subjects, we take our leave of Mr. ABBOTT'S 'experiences' at Edinburgh:

'IN passing through the gallery at Holyrood, where the miserable
daubs of the Scottish kings are exhibited, I was accosted by
a legitimate cockney, whom I discovered to be a traveller
for some furniture-maker's establishment. He had not been
long enough in his vocation to acquire the shrewdness for
which that class of persons are celebrated, but made up in
unsophisticated simplicity what they possess in assurance. He
recognized me immediately, having, as he said, 'frequently seen
me at Covent-Garden Theatre;' and without any extra ceremony
he fastened himself upon me. When he came to the portrait of
MACBETH, he turned quickly round upon our cicerone, and said:
'LORD bless you! that's not a bit like him; for I saw JOHN
KEMBLE _do it_, and it isn't so much like him as the moon is
like a Cheshire cheese.' But the climax of his sage remarks
occurred when the old woman came to the spot where DAVID RIZZIO
was murdered, and pointed out the stain of his blood, which
still remains, and which neither time nor soap, she said, would
ever efface. Our cockney rubbed his hands with delight, and
said: 'Why, my good woman, _I'll give you some stuff that will
take it out in half an hour_!' * * * One morning I lounged into
the box-office, which was crowded with persons taking places;
and on looking at the playbill of the night's performance, I saw
the tragedy of Isabella announced, 'Carlos by Mr. ABBOTT, _with
his celebrated hornpipe in fetters_, as performed by him at the
Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden!' This was one of the practical
jokes of my friend MURRAY, (who married a sister of THOMAS
MOORE.) He had given the printer directions to strike off some
half a dozen bills of _this_ stamp, for the purpose of raising a
laugh against me!'

Soon after the retirement of JOHN KEMBLE from the London stage, a great event, and well described by Mr. ABBOTT, that great tragedian gave a memorable dinner to some eighteen or twenty of the most distinguished members of the _corps-dramatique_ of Covent-Garden Theatre. Among the guests, also, was TALMA, of whom we have this graphic account:

'ON this occasion we had a fine trait of the tragic powers of
TALMA; not a bombastic display of French acting, but a grand
and simple narrative of facts, connected with that frightful
epoch, the French Revolution. He himself was suspected, watched;
and his profession alone saved him from the blood-hounds who
were on his track. During the most terrific period, he did
not dare to sleep at his hotel, but lived in the outskirts of
the metropolis; and when called in town by his professional
avocations, he would steal like a culprit to the gate of his
residence, and in an under tone inquire of the old Swiss porter
the bloody news of the day. On one occasion he was told that
some thirty or forty of his most intimate friends had that very
morning perished by the guillotine. Feeling that the crisis of
his own fate had arrived, he went tremblingly to the theatre;
and during the performance the overwhelming anguish of his soul
was relieved only by the tears coursing down his cheeks; and the
very expression of which feeling every moment endangered his
life. There was a cold, creeping chilliness about the hearts of
all present as he spoke, which was perfectly thrilling; and not
a sound was heard till he had ceased.'

Here is a brace of anecdotes of an absent-minded brother-actor, which will perhaps 'agitate the risible organs' of some of our readers:

'HENRY,' in 'Speed the Plough,' was a character in which he had
gained some reputation. At the closing scene of the play, he
rushes into a wing of the castle, which is in flames, in quest
of papers likely to disclose the secret of his birth. He returns
in fearful agitation, with his right hand concealed in his
bosom, and which in fact should contain the bloody _dénouement_
of the plot, a towel dipped in blood, _alias_ rose-pink, and a
knife, also properly stained for the occasion. The climax of
his speech ran thus: 'In vain the angry flames flashed their
vengeance around me! Among many other evidences of blood and
guilt, I found _these_!'--producing his fingers and hand! He had
entirely forgotten the essential accompaniments * * * His first
appearance was before Mr. DIMOND had quitted the stage, and
who enacted the part of 'Belcour' in 'The West Indian.' In the
scene with his sister the debutant should say: 'Are you assured
that Mr. BELCOUR gave you no diamonds?' The question however
was rendered thus: 'Are you assured that Mr. DIMOND gave you no
BELCOURS?'

Such errors, we believe, are not infrequent upon the stage. The reader will perhaps remember the blunder of the Ghost in Hamlet, on one occasion; who, instead of saying that the 'knotted and combinéd locks' of the young prince would 'stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine,' reversed the terms in this ludicrous manner: 'Your twisted and combinéd locks shall stand up straight, like forks upon the _fretful quillcopine_!' A single passage more must close our extracts from this delightful autobiography. It is a short story, touching 'the immortal TOWNSEND, the first of Bow-street officers, the favorite of Royalty, and the dread of all coachmen and flambeau'd footmen:'

'I THINK I see him now, with his flaxen wig, his low-crowned
hat, long gaiters, and half-Quaker suit,' discoursing most
eloquent music.' It was a source of great amusement to the young
sprigs of nobility to extract from him in conversation some
of his most characteristic slang expressions; nor did Royalty
itself disdain to be amused at his expense. About the period of
the connection between the Duke of Clarence and Mrs. JORDAN,
public opinion was rife on the subject. His Royal Highness was
at the opera, surrounded by the world of fashion; and when he
encountered TOWNSEND, who was on duty there, he said, in his
brusque, off-hand manner: 'Ah! Townsend, Townsend, how d' ye do,
Townsend?' 'Why, your Royal Highness, pretty bobbish, I thank
you,' replied the functionary. 'Well, Townsend, what news, what
news?' 'Why, nothink, your Royal Highness, of any consequence.'
'Oh, nonsense! nonsense! The people must have something to talk
about.' 'Why then, if your Royal Highness pleases, the talk is
principally about you and Mrs. JORDAN.' The sailor-prince was
here a little thrown 'aback.' 'Never mind, never mind; let them
talk; I don't care.' Observe the simplicity of the answer: 'Your
Royal Highness is a d--d fool if you do!'

The foregoing is the result of a merely casual dipping, here and there, into the teeming pages of Mr. ABBOTT'S manuscript volume. Whoever the fortunate publisher of the work may be, he may calculate with certainty upon its acquiring instant popularity.

'THE DIAL' for the October quarter is a very excellent and lifeful number of that greatly-improved journal. Among the articles which most attracted our attention and admiration, are the 'Youth of the Poet and Painter,' 'A Winter Walk,' an essay on 'The Comic,' and the 'Letter' of the Editor to his correspondents. The first of these papers is characterized by several thrusts of a trenchant satire. We should rather infer, from the recorded 'experiences' of the writer, that when he first entered college, his bump of reverence for collegiate institutions and men of learning could hardly have been developed. Hear him, how he saith:

'I SAW that in reciting our lessons to the conceited tutors, who
think College is the Universe, and the President Jupiter, they
had the impudence to give us marks for what we did, as if we,
paying them for so much aid in our lessons, were therefore to be
rewarded by them with a couple of pencil scratches. I found we
were treated, not only as machines, but to be set up or down, at
the discretion of these tutors, who had merely to scratch down a
mark, and thus decide our fates. This foolery I felt I could not
agree to.' 'I found here no scholars whatever. Some young men
deficient in grace, were wearing out the elbows of their coats,
in getting by heart some set lessons of some little text-books,
and striving which should commit them the most perfectly to
memory. This perfection lay in the point of a tutor's pencil,
and was at last decided on by the votes of a band of professors,
who loved wine and puddings better than literature or art, and
whose chief merit lay in keeping their feet dry.'

Perhaps 'these be truths.' Certain it is, that the annexed passage partakes of the veritable. It is a 'picture in little' of the morning routine of a briefless lawyer; and the sitter has many a counterpart in this metropolis of Gotham:

'IN the morning, you enter your office at half-past eight,
read the paper till nine, and then, if you feel able, walk as
far as the court-house. There you are provided with a seat by
the sheriff, and cold water by the deputy-sheriff. You next
stare at the Court, consisting of one or more judges, twelve
jurymen, a criminal or civil case, four baize tables, and a lot
of attorneys. You next begin to make motions, which consists
in getting a case put off, or put on, as you happen to feel,
and run your eye over the docket, which is kept at the clerk's
table, in a ledger, for the accommodation of the county, and the
clerk's family. If it is your case which comes on, you open your
eyes wide, talk a great deal about nothing, and dine with the
bar. Occasionally you will feel sleepy after dinner, but awake
yourself by smoking a cigar, or driving into the country.'

Here is an extract which will be appreciated for its graceful diction, the love and observation of nature which it displays, and the pensive train of thought which its tone engenders:

'TO-DAY has been pure golden sun-shine since morning; and how
the day-god played with the trunks of the trees, as if the
forest were one great harp! In the morning, as I sat among
golden-rods, under the shade of a pine, where on every side
these sunny flowers grew, it seemed as if the sunlight had
become so thickly knotted and intertwined with the roots and
stems of the plants and grasses, that it could not escape, but
must remain and shine forever; yet the pine tree's shadow, at
sunset and before, fell long across the place, and the gay light
had fled, like the few bright days of life, which fly so rapid
by. The old tell us we are young, and can know nothing of life;
to me it seems I have lived centuries, out of which I can reckon
on my fingers the days of pleasure, when my heart beat high. I
fancy there is a race of men born to know only the loss of life
by its joys; to live by single days, and to pass their time for
the most part in shadowy vistas, where there is neither darkness
nor light, but perpetual mist. I am one of these; and though I
love nature; the river, the forest, the clouds, she is only a
phantom, like myself, and passes slowly, an unexplained mystery,
like my own consciousness, which shows through a want of perfect
knowledge. I see myself, only as what I do not know, and others,
as some reflection of this ignorance, an iceberg among other
icebergs, slowly drifting from the frozen pole of birth to the
frozen pole of death, through a sunny sea.'

Well pleased should we have been to accompany our observant and thoughtful essayist, when he fetched his 'Winter Walk.' Mark his delicate appreciation of the little accessories of the season. We thank him for awakening vivid glimpses of the past, that go strait to the fresh scenes of boyhood:

'THERE is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which
never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts
the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under
a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows
somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of
winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily
dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We
feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue,
and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare
stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods,
with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which
rises from swamps and pools, is as dear and domestic as that of
our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a
winter's day, when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides,
and the chicadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth
comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the
earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our back
as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a
special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into
that by-place. This subterranean fire has its altar in each
man's breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill,
the traveller cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his
cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is
the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his
heart.' * * * 'In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts
are warm and merry, like cottages under drifts, whose windows
and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke
cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense
of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we
are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the
chimney top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had
in a warm corner by the chimney side, or feeling our pulse by
listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of
the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a
skilful physician could determine our health by observing how
these simple and natural sounds affected us.'

We commend the following to those who seem to think that a thorough love of the comic or the burlesque argues an ill-regulated mind or a perverted taste. That there _are_ such persons, the reader who has done us the honor to peruse our late confabulations with correspondents, will not need to be informed:

'A PERCEPTION of the comic seems to be a balance-wheel in our
metaphysical structure. It appears to be an essential element
in a fine character. Wherever the intellect is constructive,
it will be found. We feel the absence of it as a defect in the
noblest and most oracular soul. It insulates the man, cuts
down all bridges between him and other men. The perception of
the comic is a tie of sympathy with other men, is a pledge of
sanity, and is a protection from those perverse tendencies and
gloomy insanities into which fine intellects sometimes lose
themselves. A man alive to the ludicrous is still convertible.
If that sense is lost, his fellow-men can do little for him.'

In the subjoined, which we take from the 'Letter' of the Editor, already alluded to, may be seen one beneficial result of the 'hard times,' which, driving men out of cities and trade, forced them to take off their coats and go to work on the land, which has rewarded them not only with wheat, but with habits of labor:

'SPECULATION is no succedaneum for life. What we would know, we
must do. As if any taste or imagination could take the place of
fidelity! The old Duty is the old God. And we may come to this
by the rudest teaching. A friend of ours went five years ago to
Illinois to buy a farm for his son. Though there were crowds
of emigrants in the roads, the country was open on both sides,
and long intervals between hamlets and houses. Now after five
years he has just been to visit the young farmer and see how he
prospered, and reports that a miracle has been wrought. From
Massachusetts to Illinois, the land is fenced in and builded
over, almost like New-England itself, and the proofs of thrifty
cultivation every where abound.'

There is much less of the new style of verbal affectations in the present than in preceding numbers of 'The Dial,' and it is just in this proportion the more readable and attractive. We see something indeed of 'externality.' 'reäction inward,' 'unitive ideas;' and certain compound terms, which are meant to be forcible, but are only foolish; such as 'flesh-meat' for meat, 'foot-tread' for tread, and other the like words; but they are scarcely worth mentioning; the infrequency of their occurrence being a sufficient proof of the decadence into which they are already falling.

* * * * *

'MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF ENGLAND.'--We have in three handsome volumes, from the press of Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia, an accurate memoir of the Court of England, from the Revolution in 1668 to the death of GEORGE the Second. The work proceeds from the pen of JOHN HENEASE JESSE, author of 'Memoirs of the Court of England during the Reign of the STUARTS.' There are numerous and fruitful themes of instruction and warning in these volumes; lessons which have not been lost upon the world, and which are of especial interest to the citizens of a republic; aside from which, the details of the private history of some score of eminent persons, who left their impress on the eras in which they flourished, must needs have attraction for the general reader, who may only peruse them with an eye to lively entertainment. We observe, by the journals of the day, that the work is heartily welcomed and duly appreciated by the public.

THE DRAMA.

PARK THEATRE.--We congratulate the friends of the drama upon the bright auspices under which this establishment has commenced the present season. Those who have long predicted the downfall of things theatrical, and the utter extinction of the legitimate drama, find but little in the present aspect of affairs at this house to flatter their spirit of prophecy. So long as we continue upon the civilized side of barbarism, so long will a true taste for the drama remain with us. It is the natural food of an intellectual society, and as such will be cherished wherever that society exists; the vagaries of fashion on the one hand, and the railings of fanaticism on the other, to the contrary notwithstanding.

Mr. WALLACK.--The engagement fulfilled by this gentleman, after an absence of some years, proved to his admirers that the vigor and vivacity of his acting have lost none of their former charms. In those personations which he has long since made his own, he displayed the same excellence which ever characterized his performance. To say that Mr. WALLACK stands at the head of melo-dramatic actors, is not awarding him full praise. He is immeasurably beyond all rivalry in this branch of the art. Melo-dramatic performances by _other_ artists bear about the same relation to the chaste acting of tragedy that the art of scene-painting in water-colors does to that other art which embraces alike the power of tracing upon canvass the most delicate as well as the most magnificent works of nature, in the bold and imperishable figures of a MICHAEL ANGELO or a CLAUDE LORRAINE. The outlines, the sketchy prominences, of the landscape are what the best of the melo-dramatic actors have delineated; but WALLACK has gone a distance beyond them, and added a grace and a finish to the picture, of which his subjects were before thought incapable of receiving. And yet Mr. WALLACK is no tragedian. With the high regard which we entertain for his talents, we have never seen them exerted in tragedy, without lamenting their sad misdirection. In the enviable station which he occupies as the first melo-dramatic actor of the age, fearless of rivalry, he should be satisfied, and consider the dignity of third-rate tragedian as entirely beneath his ambition.

Mr. MACREADY.--Sixteen years ago the American public were first gratified by the performance of this great tragedian--great even then; and those who remember the peculiar character of his style at that time, have recognized it again with all its beauties improved by long study and practice, and not entirely devoid of blemishes. Mr. MACREADY'S acting presents the effect of great study; it shows the result of sound judgment, and bears witness to the absence of all feeling. Great as was EDMUND KEAN, and great as is the subject of this notice, in the same department of the drama, never were two artists, on or off the stage, more completely the antipodes of each other. KEAN, all soul; reckless of art, and apparently despising even the most common and long-received rules and usages of the stage; rushed before his audience, embodying as he advanced the very soul of the character which he had put on with his dress; warming with it, _feeling_ the sensations which he expressed; with

'A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.'

There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing to memory of the words of his part. He identified _himself_ with the character, and for the time _was_ that character, to all intents and purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of such _acting_? Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer! KEAN did not create _admiration_; he awakened _enthusiasm_. Mr. MACREADY is so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, that _admiration_ is the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar the exquisite regularity of its movements. But it _is_ a piece of machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The power which KEAN possessed was no more a merit to the man, as being the work of study, than the genius of BYRON was a creation of his own. Nature made him an actor--a thing of feeling; and he could not shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone forth in all its native effulgence--dazzling and unshaded. Therefore it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr. MACREADY occupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor than would be the same position, if gained for him by nature alone. The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position than any of his contemporaries, if JOHN KEMBLE alone be excepted. We have observed during this engagement of Mr. MACREADY'S many new and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points, which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing' of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr. MACREADY'S first engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted upon.

C.

* * * * *

APROPOS of the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'MAIL-ROBBER,' with a most timely and apposite paper, in his

FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.

TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.

MACREADY'S come! I met him, just at dark,
Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'
Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,
As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;
His decent person, neatly built and straight,
His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;
His Irish face, which doth not much resemble
The more expressive front of KEAN or KEMBLE,
All for an instant, as my glance they caught,
Brought you and either green-room to my thought.

From him I turned my meditative gaze,
Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;
But not the multitude that nightly throng
To feast their ears with Ethiopian song,
Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,
Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,
Nor all the glitter of the gay saloons
Where oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,
Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,
Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.
Alas! how dwindled from her brighter years
The buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,
Who deigned a little while in yonder dome
To fix her throne, her altar and her home;
Securely trusting in a land so young,
Whose native speech was her own SHAKSPEARE'S tongue,
To see restored the glories of her reign,
And other GARRICKS born, _this side_ the main.

Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;
Poor DRAMA! this was no domain for you.
Here never shall return that early time
When the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,
And all the prose of our existence change
By magic power to something rich and strange;
Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,
Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,
Shall the dull genius of a sordid age
Bring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.

They grossly err this thrifty race who call
A youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!
What though some trace of the barbarian state
Betrays at times the newness of their date;
What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?
The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.
Old Europe holds not in its oldest nook
A race less juvenile in thought and look;
There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;
Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:
For all the children in their aspect wear
The lines of sorrow and corrosive care;
Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,
Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.

Oh my dear England! merry land! GOD bless you!
Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,
Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,
Still once a year at least allowed a smile;
When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,
And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.
Nor quite extinct is that robust old race
(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)
Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,
At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.
Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,
Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;
Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,
Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.

But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,
Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!
Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!
Vain was your hope to build an empire here:
Not ev'n _your_ slaves will freemen deign to be--
Fly to some region where the soul is free.
Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,
With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,
Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,
And his own laws and his own blunders makes;
Leaving his people only to obey,
And sleep the noon and sing the night away.
Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours
Which here the service of the State devours.

Here nobler cares enlightened man engage
Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage.
Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls
To solemn _caucus_ in her council halls,
Wherein her trembling destiny awaits
The awful issue of their high debates.
What time have they the ravings to endure
Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,
When Duty calls them to contrive a way
To pay the nation's debt--or not to pay?
Or when perchance upon a single voice
Depends an alderman's defeat or choice?
Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,
With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,
When they, by far more naturally, play
Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?
Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare
The flaming patriot from his country's care,
Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain
From the long thraldom of her golden chain,
Why then his tireless energies demand
A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:
With indefatigable ears and eyes
To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,
And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps
From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.
For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,
Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;
And much there is to wonder at and know
In all the 'ologies, from _aer_ to _zo_.

What power against such rivalry could stand?
Farewell, poor DRAMA! seek another land.
Fancy ev'n now anticipates the day
When your last pageant shall have passed away:
I see, I see the auctioneer profane
Each inmost recess of your hallowed reign;
While crowds of clergymen and deacons pour
Your violated horrors to explore.
Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,
Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.
BRAGALDIS'S brush, poor Queen! is dry for you,
Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.
Yes; the same art which whilom could transport
The lost beholder to king DUNCAN'S court,
Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'
Where the weird women, low'ring, hailed MACBETH,
Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,
With some small aid from carver and from gilder:
What masons cannot build, the painter paints
In water-colors, to delight the saints.

'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayer
Shows that had made a pious Pagan stare;
A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,
Where true believers come to worship Truth!
Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exalt
Arch above arch, and vault supporting vault;
Around the chancel, marble to the eye,
Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,
While far beyond a seeming choir extends
Whose awful depth a mimic window ends.
Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)
For ever streams a never-setting sun,
And all appears the work of hands divine,
Another Westminster--of varnished pine!
Nor only so; the very violins
Are now atoning for their ancient sins,
By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,
And winning souls as ORPHEUS did of yore.
Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skill
May with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,
And many a heart an orchestra may move,
Past all the power of preaching to improve.

Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,
And all things _are_ precisely what they were;
For all the changes of our history seem
Infinite eddies in the sweeping stream,
Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,
Our course eternally is round and round;
Or why life's progress may I not compare
To a long passage up a winding stair;
We turn and turn again, as we ascend,
For ever climbing toward the unknown end,
Where one impenetrable veil of clouds
The aim and summit of our being shrouds;
And on our state bestowing but a glance,
We seem to move, but never to advance;
Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rolls
Poised on the balanced spindle of her poles,
Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,
Circling the central orb with every year,
Thus we our double journey still pursue,
Revolving still, yet ever onward too.

Think how the stage in piety began,
When early players played the 'fall of man;'
Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the Ark
Eyeing the clouds, about to disembark.
Now the Church borrows what it lent before,
And the just actors all her own restore:
Again Devotion asks the help of Art,
And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.
The self same vein which bade old bards rehearse
The book of Exodus in tragic verse,
Reveals itself in operas that mingle
Religious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.
'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,
Night after night the galleries can fill,
While crowds of Sunday amateurs admire
The tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.
Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,
When concert-rooms our worship will supply,
And sacred oratorios combine
(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.

But soft--the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;
Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.

T. W. P.

* * * * *

Mr. PLACIDE, the _universal_ favorite, who requires not a word of praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman, we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers, and editorial and personal friends, in that meridian. Gentlemen, he is 'a trump!' Mr. CHIPPENDALE is cordially welcomed back to the Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in 'Werner!' It was a _faultless_ performance, by common consent of his gratified auditors. The same may be said, and _was_ said, indeed, and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col. DAMAS' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr. CHIPPENDALE has been greatly missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of Mr. WHEATLEY. 'That first appeal which is to the _eye_' is most satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of 'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the actor, though less _outwardly_ manifested, were certainly not less felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr. WHEATLEY won golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued study and attention to the _minutiæ_ of his characters, this young gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr. VACHE, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed, correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.

* * * * *

'AMERICAN THEATRE,' BOWERY.--We have nothing but abundant success to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring audiences, to witness the representation of SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and heroines by Mr. HAMBLIN, and that gifted actress, Mrs. SHAW. This _fact_ sufficiently bespeaks the _character_ of the personations of these two popular performers.

* * * * *

MITCHELL'S OLYMPIC.--Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers, who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital acting of MITCHELL, in the amusing travestie of 'MACBETH,' the charming voice of Miss TAYLOR, or the clever personations of WALCOTT.'

* * * * *

THE CHATHAM.--'E'yah! yah! yah!--e'look-o'-'ere!' JAMES CROW, Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens' at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of theatricals in the metropolis. Mr. BURTON, a low comedian, formerly of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,' YANKEE HILL is amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of 'down-east' life and manners.

* * * * *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--It is many years since we first perused the thoughtful '_Vision of Mirza_.' We have been pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read, we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains' against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind, we thought of _One_ who held with Nature an affectionate fellowship, and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey, growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was 'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companion _alone_, to press on toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance. Strange power of memory!

'In thoughts which answer to our own,
In words which reach the inward ear
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
We feel his living presence here!'

_Something_ there is in the autumn season which reaches back into those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible being! Enter with us, reader, upon MIRZA'S Bridge, and listen to the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:

'CAST thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou
seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide
of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,'
said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that
thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the
reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick
mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at
the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of
eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and
reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.
Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with
darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in
it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the
tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life;
consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I
found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which,
added to those that were entire, made up the number about an
hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that
this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that
a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the
ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said
he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people
passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each
end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the
passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that
flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived
that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the
bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell
through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These
hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the
bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the
cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward
the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end
of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons,
but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of
hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after
another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful
structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented.
My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several
dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and
catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves.
Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture,
and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of
sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that
glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when
they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing
failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I
observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro
upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which
did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have
escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'

The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length, it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen 'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me, upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!--this burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!--and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!--come the immortal life!' * * * THE '_Tale_' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter entire. The ''cute trick' upon the _honest_ farmer was capital, and a fair _quid pro quo_. It was not better, however, than the following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York, who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if it _was_ collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor, who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I guess. I _know_ that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I _do_ try?' 'Well, Sir, the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you--yes, I'll give you _half_, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector; 'there's no harm in _tryin'_, any way.' Some weeks after, the creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street, encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he, ''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see, I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so 't wan't no use--not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he _wasn't_ home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I, after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun airly _next_ day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. _He paid me my half, an' I 'gin him up the note!_' * * * WE invite the attention of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical conceptions, graphically expressed:

WINTER.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

AND art thou coming, Winter!
In thy wild and stormy might
To cast o'er all earth's lovely things
Thy pale and withering blight?
Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;
I feel his breath--ah me! how cold!
He wears the same wild, haggard brow
Which he wore when in his prime;
And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,
Which he sang in the olden time;
The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell--
Ah! ha! old WINTER! I know thee well!

Thou art coming, icy Winter!
To tell the same sad tale,
Of bright things passing from the earth,
With sigh and moan and wail;
Of fair flowers fading, one by one,
As thy sable banners cloud the sun:
A chant from the polar choir peals out,
Wildly, and full of wo,
As march thy fierce escadrons forth
From their battlements of snow:
A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,
Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!

Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes
Shut out the bright blue sky;
All nature mourns the fast decay
Of Summer's blazonry:
Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,
She sorrows o'er her dying child.
The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,
And the singing birds have flown
Away, away to some bright land
To thee and thine unknown;
And even man in his pride grows pale,
And trembles at thy fierce assail.

Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,
With a fitful, wild halloo;
And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,
With a mournful rat-tat-too!
Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spare
The fruitful field and the gay parterre!
But the fierce battalions, filing on,
Nor heed nor hear my cry;
And a dirge for the fair and flowery field
Swells through the darkened sky:
And showers of icy javelins fall,
The only answer to my call!

But ho! a flag of truce hangs out
In spotless folds on high;
And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoons
Through the dark and troubled sky:
And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,
They seek the earth in countless showers;
They fall on the mountain's giddy height,
In the dark ravine they fall,
And o'er the distant city's domes
They spread their radiant pall;
That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,
Is spread over forest and field and street.

On the storied monument it falls,
Blots out the studied verse,
And covers all the high and low
With one unsculptured hearse.
Methinks it lies more lightly on
The grave of the broken-hearted one.
The folds of a Paynim turban now
The village spire doth hide;
And see! it dresses the old yew-tree
As gay as a bonny bride;
With an ermine-cloak it wraps the plain,
And shuts the blast from the growing grain.

Come on! come on! old Winter!
Spring wears a winning smile,
And Summer has a lulling art
To charm and to beguile;
And Autumn is in beauty drest;
But thy rough form I love the best!
Thou tellest me 'of long ago,'
Of childhood's spotless day;
Of boyhood's freaks by th' old fire-side--
Of friends now passed away:
Albeit to me thy accents drear
Tell that LIFE'S winter draweth near!

* * * * *