NOTHING could have been more illadvised, and unhappy in its effects, than the re-appearance of old Madame Mara a short time since in a public orchestra. She had, many years ago, retired from the musical profession, surrounded by such admiration and fame as perhaps never fell to the lot of any other singer-Mrs Billington not excepted. The most classical judges of the art in Europe scarcely knew how to clothe their praises in competent terms; her skill, voice, and exquisite feeling and expression, were chronicled in treatises and cyclopædias, and the qualities of succeeding singers were estimated according to the degree in which they approached her. The lovers of music who had grown up since her retirement were full of envy of those older persons who had heard this miracle of art, when on a sudden, to the astonishment of every body, out comes an announcement that Madame Mara had arrived here, and intended to sing again in public. A crowded audience waited on her bidding; but alas, poor aged soul! the meanest chorister in the ranks of the orchestra could have done better. It is invidious and painful to dwell on the exposure.

I have been led into a recollection of this circumstance by having heard a report, not in general circulation, that another old lady of equal fame in literature to that of Madame Mara in music, is about to resume her exertions, after a long interval, and to strive again at a species of composition which requires, above every thing, a fervid imagination, and a fresh and elastic fancy. I allude to Mrs Radcliff, the author of Mysteries of Udolpho, who, it seems, is preparing a new romance. Whoever has tasted the melancholy sweetness and mystery of her writings, (for her helpless commonplace and prosing sink in the memory of the reader, leaving nothing behind but mingled impressions of moonlight festivals, and convent-chaunts heard over still waters, and Italian skies, and love-lorn girls, and dim forests, and dusky chambers in old forsaken castles,) will be uneasy at hearing she is VOL. XI.

London, March 11, 1822.

about again to essay these things, and to vex the charm which has wrapped itself, I hope for ever, round her

name.

Lord Byron, it is said, is shortly coming home to make some family arrangements, in consequence of the death of a near relation. This will be awkward for the beginning of the Pisan Journal, which, by the bye, is to be edited in London by Mr John Hunt of the Examiner. The author of "Amarynthus, the Nympholept," it is suspected, will be one of the contributors.

The reading public here are fairly dumb-founded at the manifold sorrows and ten years' banishment of poor Adam Blair, for one single transgression. His history is certainly a passionate and affecting one; but although we are aware that his being a minister was an aggravation of his offence, still our metropolitan notions are fairly irritated at what seems to us the disproportion of the crime and the punishment. The temptation was more than human strength could be expected to resist; for where is the man,-nay, even the clergyman, to whom the sweet society of woman was as great a rarity as it had so long been to Adam Blair, who could have seen with selfpossession, from day to day, the charms of such a creature as Charlotte Campbell, who, to say nothing of the sufficing proportions of her figure, was, in her mental temperament, ardent and joyous, yet nevertheless weighed down into a melancholy character in consequence of her affections being so callously met as they were in both her marriages, and her hopes so often crushed? You certainly cannot apply to her the epithet" divine," which has been time out of mind given by lovers to their mistresses, for she deserves one still better in its reference to the sex,she is an admirable human woman, and it doubtless was a trying thing to the author of the romance to have decided on her death; but perhaps it was "all for the best." If Adam Blair deserved the excessive sufferings he underwent, it must have been for having used Charlotte in too professional a

2 T

manner, (no disrespect to the clergy), after the fatal night. The rebuke, "Go, woman, and sin no more," comes with singular ingratitude and want of feeling from him. The book, however, is regarded with infinite admiration, as the work of a man of powerful genius, and I think the right author is guessed. If it were allowable to joke upon so sad a tragedy as is furnished by these "Passages of the Life of Mr Adam Blair, minister of the gospel," one might be inclined to say that the book is one of the most piquant compromises between the bodily and the spiritual which has ever appeared. Mrs Semple of Semplehaugh is a capital sketch. Few people suspected the author had such a talent at comedy.

Haydon is getting on famously with his large picture of Christ raising Lazarus. The composition of it is very simple and grand; and the fearfulness of the subject is rendered overpowering by its being treated in a pathetic, rather than in a violent or horrible way. Lazarus has already arisen upright from the earth, and is seen staggering with a bewildered and reluctant air under the shadow of the mouth of the cavern which contains his grave. Christ is standing in the middle of the picture, beckoning the fearful object to come forth; and the people about him have their terror in some degree calmed by the sight of his calmness, and their consciousness of his divinity. The figures placed between the Saviour and the cavern have not the benefit of seeing his godlike tranquillity, and they are therefore agitated with the spasm of mortal dread. This is, in my opinion, very subtilely and delicately felt, and will have its due effect with the public.

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The Literary Gazette, in one of its late numbers, gave a review of a poem published anonymously, and called Italy," which they confidently attributed to Mr Southey. This seemed at the time to argue great thoughtlessness on their part, because the very same number contained Southey's answer to Lord Byron's attack, in which he takes occasion to aver solemnly that he never published a book written by himself without affixing his name to it. (This, by the way, is very unfashionable.) The poem is assuredly very much in Southey's manner; but

was difficult to conceive that he would lay himself so open to his ene

my as to perpetrate an anonymous publication in the very teeth of a gratuitous avowal of his disdain of such concealment. It has since been reported that the poem was written by Mr Rogers, who is said to have acknowledged it. The story of the two Foscari, which forms one of its episodes, is much more affecting than Lord Byron's tragedy on the same subject.

The Gallery of Pictures at the British Institution this spring is, as a whole, astoundingly dull. There is no work in it either of Martin's or Leslie's, who used to be pretty constant contributors. Etty's voluptuous representation of Cleopatra sailing down the Cydnus to meet Mark Antony, had already been seen and admired at the Royal Academy. The effect of this picture would have been much more intense had the painter treated it as a mere fact, and had not brought upon the scene those flying Cupids who turn the thing into a mythological fable. Real boys dressed like Cupids would have been proper, but aerial beings are impertinencies, and put one out when one is thinking of the sex. If this amorous pageant had been a mere fiction, instead of having actually taken place, still the power of its delineation would have consisted in its probability. If the deity of love,

why, human ties are very much inclined to return the compliment at sight of his wings. I have no idea of allegorical personages, in connexion with the passion of love, which is too serious a thing to be trifled with. Besides, there was no necessity on the score of ornament or colouring for these supernatural accompaniments, because the description is of itself sufficiently luxurious and splendid. Plutarch says, "she took her barge in the river of Cydnus; the poop whereof was of gold, the sails of purple, and the oars of silver. ***** And now, for the person of herselfe, she was layed under a pavilion of cloth of gold of tissue, apparelled and attired like the godesse Venus, commonly drawn in picture; and had by her, on either hand of her, pretie faire boyes, apparelled as painters do set forth god Cupid, with little fans in their hands. *** Her ladies and gentlewomen also were apparelled

like the nimphes Nereides (which are the myrmaides of the waters), some stearing the helme, others tending the tackle, &c." 1579. Sir T. North's trans. All this took place under an exalted eastern atmosphere, of which the paint er has availed himself in the gorgeousness of his colouring; but if it had been necessary to resort to mere abstract poetry, to heighten the effect of this splendid fact, surely it would have been done by Shakespeare and Dryden, the former of whom says, in his Antony and Cleopatra,"

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on each side her

written, and that language our own mother tongue. Little is known here of American poetry, except the epic of Mr Joel Barlow, which was pretty bad. Should the book contain any thing in verse as interesting by virtue of its nationality, (for, perhaps, after all, this is the chief source of whatever is valuable and lasting in literature), as the novels of Charles Brockedon Brown, it will be a capital introduction to our knowledge of the genius of the United States. Washington Irving has grafted himself (style, feelings, allusions, every thing) on our

Cupids;"

Newton's "Lover's Quarrels," Nasmyth's View of Edinburgh, and young Landseer's animal piece, are the only other things which dwell on the memory, after leaving the exhibition.

Calcott is at present employed in painting a large picture, of which the figures constitute the principal portion and interest. This is a departure from his usual line of art; but it is said that he has succeeded perfectly as far as he has gone. The picture is to be called "Smugglers Alarmed."

The review of the Pirate, in Taylor and Hessy's Magazine, was written by Hazlitt, and is considered here to be a delightful piece of criticism. It is much to be wished that he and the other critics militant, would more of ten abate their mutual asperity, and look after the excellences, as well as the defects of authors opposed to them, in literary and political party. No one can say, for instance, that Shelley is treated with any thing like justice in the Quarterly Review, or that Coleridge and Wordsworth have not been miserably misrepresented in the Edinburgh.

The specimens of the American poets, which have been announced, will be selected by Mr Roscoe, son of the biographer of the Medici family. It will be a curious thing to receive samples of foreign poetry, in the language in which they were originally

become merely one of a crowd of good English writers. Brown, it must be admitted, followed the manner of Godwin a little too slavishly, but in all else he is purely American; and this it is which makes him stand out with so bold and single a prominence. It is to be hoped that Mr Roscoe will give us, among the rest, a specimen or two of the more recent poetry of Mr Alston, the painter, for surely his muse cannot have been idle since his return to America. His sonnet on Rembrandt was first-rate.

If Jeremy Collier had been alive now, he would not have written his discourse against the English stage; for the regular theatres of London are asleep in a state of such deep dullness, that he would hardly have been aware of their existence. The legitimate stage, if there be any such thing, yields little profit now, either to audiences or proprietors-one of the minor theatres, the Adelphi, being the only thriving concern; and even their success is owing simply to the famous burletta, "Tom and Jerry, or Life in London," which is represented with amazing truth of slang and blackguardism. It has run upwards of one hundred nights, and it is yet an affair of peril to squeeze your way into the pit. This Life in London has been a golden mine to more parties than one. First of all, the publishers of the book, Messrs Sherwood, Neely & Co. netted some thousands by it; then, in the early part of its dramatic career, Mr Watkin Burroughs performed Jerry with such spirit, and appeared so manly in his street encounters at night, that a lady of large property fell in love with and married him, and he left his part to Mr John Reeve, who deserves to be equally lucky. The

proprietors of the Adelphi theatre have already realized L.12,000 by its representation, and are likely to get a great deal more. Mr Pierce Egan, and the Messrs Cruickshanks, have no doubt had their share of this good luck, though much of the merit of the thing rests indisputably with the latter. The burletta is worthy of the plates, or rather it is the plates set in motion. Every character is capitally done, with the exception of the Champion of England, who is one of the persons represented," and who is made by the actor to speak in a Yorkshire, instead of a Somersetshire accent, which is on every account a gross mistake. The scene of "All Max in the East," is well worth seeing by any one who does not mind contemplating filth, and profligacy, and vagabond merriment. The man who performs "Dusty Bob" makes a wonderful fac-simile of a squalid "coster-monger," a being made up of gin, rags, occasional starvation, and perpetual knavery.

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The Italian opera is conducted with much care and activity. Rossini's "La Gazza Ladra" is brought forward again with a partial change, not for the better, in the cast of the parts. Were it not for the great Mozart, Rossini would be the prince of dramatic musical composers; and he shews considerable self-knowledge in being sparing of his songs, and liberal with

his choruses, and other concerted pieces, in which he approaches nearer than any other musician to the unrivalled master. In his single airs, he is merely refined and ornamental; they have not even a faint shadow of the character, originality, meaning, variety, and deep sentiment, of those of Mozart, who is, in all probability, destined to remain unapproachable. The present company at the opera is well constituted for the representation of the works of Rossini, as it consists of a great portion of good singers, instead of a dazzling Prima Donna" in the midst of a wretched set of vocalists, which was formerly the case; the concerted pieces, therefore, in the hands of Camporese, Ronzi, Caradori, Curioni, Cartoni, Angrisani, and Placci, go off to admiration. Camporese, especially, is in this way the most effective singer I ever heard on the Italian boards; she sings in tune, and is evidently a good musician. Caradori has been over-rated; she is an interesting singer, but falls lamentably short of Madame Vestris in the part she has assumed in "La Gazza Ladra." She wants knowledge and decision of style; her voice is too innocent for the elaborate music of the Italian opera.

The ballet called "Les Pages du Duc de Vendome," makes up for want of story by an abundance of good dan cing. Mercandotti is the heroine, and in the course of the performance dances a bolera, in which something of her native spirit is to be seen; but altogether it is "done into French," -a sad falling off from the original Spanish. "Mercandotti, thou art translated!" Madame Angiolini and Vestris used to perform this national dance in the ballet of "Don Quixote," and it was a hundred times better than the present exhibition of it by Roland and Mercandotti, though that could not have been said when the latter was in this country before. The twelve pages of the Duke are played by twelve women, and very arch and vivacious they are; but they look too well as boys, which does not argue much for their figures as women. Is it that the peculiar beauty of the female shape is danced away by excessive practice?

J. J.

་་

PDEAR SIR,

As the literature of country is marked with its peculiar characteristics, so the theatrical art must necessarily adopt those shades of character which distinguish the spirit of one nation from that of another. The climate, the manners and particular habits of a people, have necessitated laws founded on their welfare; and, in like manner, dramatic literature, which has unquestionably a great influence on the humour and conduct of the multitude, must have formed its laws on the same principle. The English and the Germans seem to require stronger sensations than the French, on account of the greater degree of apathy in their national character; while the Italian theatre appears to sympathise better with that of the French, from the warmth of imagination in the inhabitants of the south, which differs but little from that of a temperate climate.

During the last thirty years, the wants and manners of the French have changed, and their theatrical system has deeply felt the consequences of this vicissitude; that is to say, that, without violating the fundamental rules of the dramatic art, the revolution of ideas has naturally forced authors to overthrow the barrier which fettered the march of genius, and to trace a new path, in which they have been more or less successful. Historical comedy, unknown a century ago, has arisen on the scene which seemed to hold out the Misanthrope and Tartuffe as the only models for comic genius. Tragi-comedy opened a new career for dramatic authors; most of them have greatly abused it; and, as imitation is the ordinary resource of mediocrity, they have endeavoured to prove that it is not sufficient to move the feelings of the spectator, but that it is necessary also to satisfy his eyes and his ears; hence sprung the melo-drama, which owes its chief success to decoration, dancing, and music, while talent and interest are only accessories.

But the melo-drama itself, now so popular in Paris, has two powerful rivals, the Vaudeville and the pantomime. Le Français né malin créa la Vaudeville, says Boileau; and, according to this remark, wit and pleasantry, combined with bon ton, should form

February 15, 1822. the soul of this species of drama; but these vital ingredients have not of late made their appearance very frequently.

The pantomime, that dear delight of the conquerors of the world, is new in France; for it has only really existed in Paris within these fifteen or twenty years; but some admirable performers, and in particular actresses, have shewn that genius and sensibility are capable of exciting the deepest emotions without any aid from speech.

If the great theatres in Paris often make the enlightened critic regret preceding times, the secondary ones appear anxious to make up for this striking deficiency. Some pretended philosophers have maintained that these petits spectacles are prejudicial to the manners and morals of the people; but can there be any harm in laughing at a good joke, or in weeping over an instance of heroic devotion? Is it not a hundred times better to listen to sentiments of virtue and morality in a play, however stupid or silly the piece may be, than to spend the gains of industry and labour in gross debauchery? There is a censorship on the stage which no doubt will prevent the introduction of any immoral or dangerous maxims into the productions of the theatre.

The English and German theatres have contributed not a little of late years to the success of this dramatic revolution in Paris; but as exchanges between nations are the soul of commerce, so these literary contributions probably have a beneficial effect on dramatic literature in general.

You know very well what those dark and narrow boxes are all round a French theatre, which are called baignoires, bathing-tubs. Some pretend that this name was given them because one might suppose that a pretty woman with naked shoulders, and nothing but her hair, was really taking a bath there; while others, looking after figures of rhetoric, see in this denomination nothing but a metonymy or a synecdoche, and maintain that a baignoire is synonymous with étuves, a stew, because, say they, all the time you are in these boxes you are really in a vapour bath. Whatever may have been