THE PARISIAN MIRROR; OR, LETTERS FROM PARIS. DEAR SIR, LETTER III. 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 cha aracter; 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 ap pear 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 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. This drama has fired all the young men about town with an ambition for nocturnal "sprees," and for "milling the Charlies. The best, however, of the whole business, are the two beautiful women who perform the parts of Jane and Sue, (Miss Hammersley and Mrs Waylett.) If any man is in doubt about the respective merits of our countrywomen, and those from foreign nations, let him go to the opera-house, and after looking at the narrow Signoras and Mademoiselles, come to the Adelphi, and see those two glorious creatures, Jane and Sue, of liberal height and shape, enter the stage from the door of a Somersetshire cottage, at day-break, to the tune of "When the rosy morn appearing." Mrs Waylett is, alas! already married, and therefore cannot end in the wife of a lord or a rich banker, to which her personal merits abundantly entitle her; but then there is Miss Hammersley! 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 Plac ci, go off to admiration. Camporese, especially, is in this way the most ef fective singer I ever heard on the Ita lian boards; she sings in tune, and is evidently a good musician. Cara dori 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 deci sion 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 fe male shape is danced away by exces sive practice? J. J. THE PARISIAN MIRROR; OR, LETTERS FROM PARIS. DEAR SIR, LETTER III. 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 manEners 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 chaaracter; 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 ap pear 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 turned round and given a pretty smart rebuke to these indiscreet baigneuses; and I should have done it myself, I believe, only a philosophical idea came into my head, that perhaps the most interesting part of the play for me, after all, would be that which was going on behind my back. I lis tened, therefore, attentively, and before the play was over, I had got a deal of the history of more than twenty ladies who were figuring away in the first rows. I put down their names in my album, with the little scanda lous chronicle opposite, determined to make a delightful use of the precious information I had thus got for nothing. the original idea of the inventors of this appellation for those boxes, or rather cages, in which six individuals come to be shut up every evening, it must be allowed that the peaceable inhabit ants of the pit never had a more ter rible neighbourhood. A friend of mine, who seldom goes to the theatre, hearing that I was going to the Vaudeville, where I have not been for a long time, said to me, "If you go, take care not to be in the centre of the pit; you will get into the midst of a filthy set, with out hats, without shirts, covered with grease and dirt,-in short, they call them les claqueurs; beware of them." I went and installed myself at the extremity of the pit, near the baignoires. At every step almost one takes in Good heavens! what a noise! what a Paris one meets with one of those chattering! two scenes were already merveilleux, whose only talent consists acted, and I had positively heard no- in shewing himself off in a thousand thing but the noise of locks opening different forms. His memory always and shutting, the going and coming of enriched with the song of the day, the ouvreuses, the cracking of chairs, and and with some adventure of yesterday the rustling of silks. "Are you well evening, the cameleon of the boudoir, there?-you had better come here:- and eagerly looked for in all the salons you will see much better:-do you à la mode; he might almost_pass, know what the play is?-is not my some peoples' eyes, for a really clever hat in your way? No, belle dame, not fellow. But an observer, accustomed in the least. I'm sure it is-stop, to "shoot folly as it flies," does not I'll take it off-I can assure you I see let himself be dazzled by the bril perfectly well. It does not signify liant jargon of these well-taught par see if you can hang it up on that nail." rots; and notwithstanding the high At this moment every head in the pit eulogiums which he hears thrown out turned round, and a lengthened sht on all sides, on this borrowed fluency, came from every mouth, but the con- he knows how to catch and unmask versation went on all the same. 66 Ah! these contraband troubadours. mon dieu, I have forgot my lorgnette→→→ Will you take mine?-I wish you would get me a tabouret."-The pit turns round again, sht, sht. But the prattle goes on."We did not see you yesterday, M. Le Comte. That's true, an indispensable affair.(Chut! donc) Oh, what a beautiful seal you have got there!(chut! done)-Where did you buy it? (chut! à la porte, turn them out.)-I'll get one like it-(Silence, donc Mesdames!) for my husband (à la porte l'insolente !")—and the curtain dropped. After all, I had the patience to remain where I was, hoping that a good half hour between the acts would give the ladies time to exhaust their conversation. Vain hope! a terrible whis pering went on during the whole of the entertainment. The only words I could hear were gloire and victoire, laurier and guerrier, which the actors are in the habit of pronouncing as loud as they can. Any other man perhaps would have in The young and dashing S**** C****, for example, whom I met the other day, and who is merely a clerk in a great office, enjoys among the beau monde quite a colossal reputation. Qu'il est aimable! exclaim the petites maitresses of the Chaussée d'Antin. Qu'il est gai! cries out the wife of a négociant of the Rue Saint-Denis. Qu il est spirituel! says the chaste moiti of a notary in the Isle Saint-Louis. Comme il pense bien! repeats an old marquise of the Faubourg Saint-Ger main. My dear ladies, you are all sadly mistaken: S**** C**** is nei ther aimable, nor gai, nor spirituel, nor bien pensant; c'est un sot, buthe is complaisant. In fact, watch him at a bal in the Chaussée d'Antin, you will see him fluttering round the body of the house, and dividing his time between the bets of a table d'écarté, the ironical insipidities of a cavalier gallantry, and the stormy discussion of a projet de loi. Do you meet him at the réunion of a riche marchand? oh! here's quite another man. He charms the lively bourgeoises with comical recitals of intrigues among the ministers and their ¡ladies; he parodies the speeches of the principal speakers in the Chamber of Deputies, or taking up a flute or flageolet that is lying about, he gives them a favourite overture of Rossini, or the eternal duet of Lucile. With the notary of the Isle SaintLouis, seated between an avoué de première instance and a receveur de rentes, he decides with a doctoral tone on the literary merit of the Lampe merveil leuse, and of the Chien de Montargis. At the earnest request of the maitresse du logis, he will perhaps condescend to inscribe one of his brightest thoughts on the album of her eldest daughter, and finishes the soirée by murdering on a guitar some well-known tune accompanied with a Spanish song. But his triumph is in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The old Marquise de **** loves le wiste, Pyrame, and la Quotidienne. Here S**** C**** is admirable; he becomes the partenaire of the Marquise at a rubber,-extols Pyrame to the skies,-reads two whole columns aloud of the blessed Quotidienne-what heroism!-what devotion! Go on, happy S**** C****, with such an agreeable, such a dissipated career. La complaisance leads the way to every thing; add only to this vir tue, which you possess in such a high degree, a few grains of flattery, and your fortune is made for ever. All nations like to have a good opinion of themselves, and as one does not even like to be woke out of a pleasant dream, so the illusions of national superiority are often indulged without any real foundation in truth. Thus, the French, for a long time past, have been firmly convinced that their opera is le premier de l'Europe, though their own senses, their judgment, and the declarations of some not over-flatter ing strangers, have repeatedly told them the contrary. Far from me the idea of throwing away ridicule on an establishment so grand and beautiful; and, in a capital like this, so neces sary as the opera. There is, indeed, every reason to think that no other opera in Europe surpasses, or even equals, that of Paris, in the beauty of the scenery, the regularity of the drama, the precision of all the manoeuvres, the richness, and even the exactness of the decorations and costumes, notwithstanding some slight anachronisms and local faults that are occasionally committed. No where is there so numerous an assemblage of dancers of the first order, or corps de ballet so complete and so well disciplined: nothing is really defective in the French opera, nothing but one single important part: the SINGING. I am not one of those who think that it is absolutely impossible to have good singing in France, and with French words: the example of some performers at the Faydeau, and even at the great opera, might prove the contrary. At the same time, it must be universally allowed, that the French language, not being so melodious nor so sonorous as the Italian, can never hope to rival it in musical effect; but still one would think that the distance is sufficiently great between the softly-sweet warblings of the Italian bravura, and the deafening screams of an ordinary French singer, for the establishment of some reasonable medium. Though the greater number of the singers at the Opera in Paris, agree in singing in general like the joyous roarers of a cabaret, the result of which is a fatiguing uniformity, still they are far from having a unity of method, which they only know by name. Their only object is, by violent commotions, to bring forth the applauses of the pit, seven-eighths of which know nothing of music, but, however, are very sure to exclaim after each such exertion of the throat-quelle voix ! This is the aureola of glory to which the Parisian singer aspires: but it is, at the same time, this very thing which disgusts strangers, and keeps away from the opera all men of taste, who like to hear pure, rational singing, without all this violent agitation of the lungs and throat. How can one distinguish the melody of a composition, or enjoy its beauties, when the street-cries are substituted in place of the work of the composer? This rage for screaming, in order to make a parade of an extraordinary power of voice, not only deprives the hearers of the charms of music, but, moreover, ruins all the young débutans, who have not courage or experience enough to resist the fatal ascendancy of their companions; and in fact every |