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prove that his spirit is unsubdued, and his heart as young as ever. It is a personal consolation to us, who see in the decline of those who have excited the warmest delight in our bosoms, the visible remembrances of our own decay, and in their continued and renewing vigour, repair our own energies, and feel the spirit of boyhood vigorous and undecaying within us.

Mr. Kean's Brutus, like his Macbeth, was rather a performance marvellous in detached passages, than harmonious in its general impression. This, however, was not his fault, but that of the author, or rather compiler of the tragedy. There are no links of connexion, however subtle, between the Brutus of the first act, and the Brutus of the last, unless general expressions of a love to freedom be regarded as sufficiently discriminating character. His ideocy in the early scenes is not so much like wisely assumed madness, as real but intermittent folly. He one moment stings his oppressors by the most caustic sarcasm, which could only tend to the discovery of the cheat; the next relapses into seeming forgetfulness; and anon tells, without the least motive, the trick by which he had fulfilled the Delphic oracle, and derived an omen of his attaining the regal power. His meeting with Sextus on the other hand, hearing the story of his outrage, pouring out curses on the miserable ravisher, and casting off for ever the veil of madness, are conceived with singular felicity, and executed with great skill. But again, his speech from the rostrum-which in the historians is so pregnant, so passionate, so characteristic of a mind arisen from its long restraints, and so potent to awaken the souls of a people from their moral sepulchre-is elaborately poor and tawdry, impossible to have proceeded from the lips of Brutus, or to have touched one fibre of a Roman bosom. Instead of dwelling on the wrong, he speaks but little except of the individual misery, and gives a long and affected description of Lucretia's beauty and virtues. We can conceive of nothing worse in the millinery stile of oratory-more flimsy, artificial, and frigid-than this speech, which is attributed to a mind first expanding itself to execute long-cherished plans of vengeance, and to deliver a people from their chains. The fearful conspiracy of the sons of Brutus-originating in the darkest spirit, and cemented by the most horrid rites-is softened into the

weakness of an enamoured youth who attempts to fly with the king's daughter; and thus leaves the sentence of Brutus a murder instead of a sacrifice. Indeed, it would appear as though the true motive for his rigidity were not love for Rome, but a desire for his own renown; for when Publicola dissuades him from his purpose, he replies by giving an elaborate description of the house which he had thrown down, to remove the jealousies of the people asks "shall no one but Valerius love his country?”— and boasts that he can shew as much firmness as his colleague. Mr. Kean's representation of the fool is clever, though he appears far too apprehensive ever to have been spared by the Tarquins. By far the finest part of his performance is his exultation over the fall of the royal statue-his casting off the last vestiges of disguise-his proudly stepping forth as in newly-recovered life-his hardly-suppressed indignation while he listens to the tale of Sextus, and his terrific turning on him with curses, every word of which seems to blast and to wither. It is the grandest conceivable picture of a soul, set free after long compression, walking forth in all the terrible majesty of its nature, and feeling even in its rage, contempt, and anguish, a strange joy from the exercise of its renewed energies. The latter scenes are exceedingly inferior. Nothing but classic dignity and grace, of which he is wholly destitute, can reconcile us to a deed which would not be possible if it were not Roman. We cannot imagine Brutus torn and distracted by contending emotions. The struggle makes his conduct the more monstrous. A true stoic must see nothing but patriotism and duty-his course must be straightforward, without doubt, or relenting-nature must not be admitted to a moment's hearing, or the artificial man would give way to the natural. Brutus, doubtless, went on unshaken, "heaved no sigh, and shed no tear," proceeded through his work as a judge, with singleness of purpose, and thus set an example of a stern disregard of affection, when patriotism demanded it, which gave to the Roman republic its savage, unbending air, and enabled its sons first to conquer nature, and then to subdue the world. Mr. Kean can give no grand image of this stoic heroism-in the trial he could only appear cold and unfeeling, and therefore he wisely does not often attempt it. But then he should play not Brutus, who

certainly was not given to hysterics. A young gentleman, with a voice of much sweetness, but little power, an elegant cast of features, and graceful action, made his first appearance as Titus; and, especially in the tenderer passages, was very successful.

There were several very beautiful touches in Mr. Kean's Octavian-especially in his fond lingering over the image of Floranthe, and the bursting forth of his rapturous surprise on the discovery that she had lived only for him but the wild ranting did not become his lips, nor the rags his person. Mr. Kemble was the more picturesque savage, but Mr. Kean the gentler lover. Mr. Kean's Richard the Second, which he performed once to a scanty audience, has more of quiet beauty than any other of his characters. He speaks of kingly reverses, of blighted hopes, of graves, and worms, and epitaphs, in the sweetest tones we ever heard. Nothing can be more affecting than his resignation of the crown, in which bitter sarcasm mingles so finely with the sorrow or his vain attempt to look at the paper where his faults are registered-or his dashing down the glass, because it does not shew his face altered in accordance with his fortunes. The play, though more thickly studded with poetic beauties than almost any other, is, as a whole, very tedious in the acting.

We did not greatly admire Mr. Kean's Leon, in the gross and absurd play of Rule a Wife and have a Wife, which has surely no recommendation but the names of its authors. His assumed folly was as thin a disguise as in Brutus. His assertion of his rights, however, was spirited and manly; though the transition from abjectness to masterdom, was not so striking as in Luke, where it seemed like the change of an Arabian tale. We hoped to have seen him in this part, which he chose for his first benefit, and which elicited one or two of the brightest flashes of his genius. But he did not play it, nor Sir Edward Mortimer, which is one of the most complete and masterly of his performances. He repeated several of his characters more than once-Othello five times - encouraged by houses which, though not generally crowded, were, on the whole, extremely well attended for the season. On Saturday the 16th, he took his leave, after acting Richard the Third with even more than usual energy. The sympathy and admiration of the house broke forth on every opportunity

throughout the piece, and was almost overwhelming at its close. After loud calls, Mr. Kean came forward, pale and agitated, and in a low, but very sweet tone, delivered an unaffected and pleasing address of farewell. The applause on his retirement was universal and long protracted, and was crowned with cheers nine times heartily repeated. Most earnestly do we wish him health and prosperity-a succession of brilliant and happy nights while he is from us-and a welcome on his return, as full-hearted as grateful remembrance can offer.

COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE.

This beautiful theatre was re-opened for the winter season on Monday the 18th of September, after having undergone fresh embellishments, according to the liberal custom of its managers. The prevailing ground of the front of the boxes, of the ceiling, and of the proscenium, is now a soft green, which is set off by slips of pale yellow, while the national decorations of the rose, shamrock, and thistle, remain as before, except that their gilding is refreshed and brightened, so as to harmonize with the fresh colouring. A new chandelier, in an urn-like shape, with the King's arms at the bottom, and a circle of roses about the middle, lighted with brilliant gas burners, and surmounted by a rich canopy studded with crystal drops, is suspended from the centre of the roof. A strip of dark green, painted to resemble festoons, and richly gilded, descends from the top of the stage, to be elevated or depressed as scenic effect may require; and a magnificent drop scene, representing a curtain of green damask, falls from immediately behind it, and completes a scene of soft and unwearying brilliancy. The only deduction from our pleasure in contemplating this renewed interior, is the dingy red of the back of the boxes, which was offensive last season, and now is rendered more conspicuous by the neatness and the beauty of the decorations which have been lavished on every other part of the theatre.

The first performance of the season was Romeo and Juliet, the sweetest of tragedies, which cannot be read or seen too often. Miss Wensley, the fascinating Rosalind of last season, appeared for the first time in the lovely and intense character of its heroine. Notwithstanding the usual disadvantages of a first appearance in a new line of character, and more than usual interruption from the galleries, she displayed singular tender

ness, grace, and energy. Nothing could be more delicious than her way of stopping her lover-"I know thou wilt say, aye;" or the fullness of heart with which she added" and I will take thy word"-in the exquisite scene in the garden. She threw into the whole of the scene more of serious beauty, and therefore played it more in the true spirit of the poet than even Miss O'Neil, who infused into her performance too much of a graceful coquetry, inconsisteut with the fervid and deep emotions of Juliet. Her scenes with the nurse were beautifully playful. In the higher tragic scenes she displayed great capability for the intensest order of acting; and if her attitudes sometimes appeared overstrained, and her voice was too loudly exerted for its strength, it was easy to perceive a principle of beauty and grace in the very error, which proved what she will do when she becomes accustomed to the tragic scene. Mr. C. Kemble's Romeo was as gallant, as passionate, and as gentle as it was wont to be-and more we cannot de

sire.

though divested of indecencies of plot, and graced by the best twirls of the French school, did not please. The eye was too lavishly and the ear too scantily fed. The middling classes who fill an English theatre desire a deeper interest than mere dancing can give, and a greater attention to propriety of costume than French dancers are usually required to observe,

ENGLISH OPERA-HOUSE.

A new piece, in three acts, founded on the celebrated story of Trenck, has been produced at this theatre with great success; yet the peculiar interest of the memoir is widely removed from the dramatic. It arises not from striking and crowded incidents, but from long progression, and, instead of being concentrated in a point, is spread over sad and silent years. It is, indeed, the very want of varied action which gives the air of awful loneliness to the narrative. We are subdued to the sameness of the dungeon, so that it does not weary us, as the eye of the heroic prisoner became accustomed to its gloom. The slightest vibration is audible amidst its stillness. A little earth moved away-an indication of softer mould-a stone beginning to loosen-seem events as momentous as the strangest turns of fortune. We seem to have measured years, as we read on-and to have participated in all the long endurance of the noble struggler against the horrors of a living grave. We feel the truth of the poet's exA clamation

The Beggar's Opera, sadly curtailed of fair proportion, introduced Miss Greene, who has been greatly admired at Bath and Dublin, to a London audience, in the sweet character of Polly. Her figure is elegant, her eyes dark and expressive, and her manners lady-like and engaging. Her voice is clear and powerful, her ear correct, and her style of singing unborrowed from any of her rivals. slight occasional harshness alone inter. feres with the pleasure of her hearers. She has not that volume of sweetness which Miss Stephens pours ever forth; and perhaps her difference from that best favourite of the public, in their most brilliant passages, is not unlike that between an exquisite crystallization of clear water and a limpid and living stream. She brings a great addition to the musical strength of the house, which now only wants a first-rate male singer to complete an operatic excellence unrivalled within our memory. Why does not Mr. Sinclair come back, and bid England rival Italy?

The managers of this theatre, with the copious liberality which characterizes even their failures, have engaged the dancers from the Opera-house, whence they have been so sadly excluded. The audience, however, on the first night, did not relish the novelty. The ballet of Joconde, which is founded on one of La Fontaine's most exceptionable tales,

"Action is momentary

The motion of a muscle this way or that;

Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite."

But the "long, obscure, and infinite," cannot be exhibited on the stage. It is surprising, therefore, that the dramatist should have succeeded so well with such materials. Trenck, in his piece, is represented as thrown into prison by the machinations of a rival in love, who, by a forged letter, causes him to be suspected of sending intelligence to the enemy. The interest is excited by his efforts to escape, which are twice frustrated, when on the point of successthe last time, after he has worked his way through a subterranean passage to the outside of the garrison. But, happily, a grateful youth, whose life he had saved, discovers the villainy of his foe, steals a letter from the wretch's belt which contains full proof of the victim's innocence, and rushes in with the king's pardon at the moment when Trenck, after his stupendous toil, is about to be con

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This former is to shew one face to the party deceived, and another to the spectators.

signed again to his dungeon. mode of treating the chilling subject unfortunately skreens from execration the real author of Trenck's unparalleled suffering the vain and hollow-hearted Frederick, sometimes, as in contempt of humanity, denominated "Great"-the free-thinking despot - the philosophic slave-master- to whom religion was matter for a sneer, and human beings machines to play with. The language, however, of the drama is good, the situations well contrived, and the music diversified and pleasing. The scenery is admirably conceived and painted. The scene of the dungeon, where the pale captive is seen through the massive bars, - gradually loosens the stupendous weight of iron from his limbs, and lets it fall heavily on the earth, and then climbs the walls to a fearful chasm, at the extremity of which he is working his way to light and freedom has a reality which is almost painful. We feel the icy chill of the place running through our veins, and giving way only to the throb of intense anxiety for the success of the prisoner's toils. T. P. Cooke looks and acts the unconquerable sufferer to the life-and Miss Carew acts feelingly and sings bewitchingly as his mistress but the charm of the piece is Miss Kelly's performance of Lionel Schell, the boy who discovers the forgery of Trenck's enemies, and procures his pardon. How full of life and animal spirits how sweetly jocund-how gaily and thoughtlessly happy does she appear, before a weight of care and gratitude comes over the young heart! How sparklingly does the spirit of hope and pleasure rise up afterwards in spite of anxiety, and dissappointment, and peril! What a freshness she throws into a common-place, as she tosses her piece of gold in the air less and less blithely while she listens to a tale of sorrow, and at last catches it, with desperate resolution, and puts it, half afraid of herself, into the Savoyard's hand! With how intense an earnestness does she listen to Trenck's labours beneath the earth, and strive to warn him of his danger! With what a face of hypocritical penitence she kneels to the villain, and sings a song of plaintive cant, while she filches the letter from his belt and substitutes the apple-woman's bill! And with how captivating an archness does she triumph in her honest roguery! It is the best we have ever seen of those double-entendres of acting, where the per

HAYMARKET THEATRE.

The performances of this theatre have been much livelier and pleasanter since our last notice. One of the airiest and most vivacious of them is a revived piece of the elder Colman, entitled The Suicide. This sounds paradoxical, but it is true. Life, we have often heard, is a jest, but death in its most awful form seems no subject for laughter. The idea of making the stage a Court of Ease to the Old Bailey, suggested in The Critic, is improved on by an author who offers his services as an assistant to the coroner's functions. The truth is, however, that the piece seems scarcely to have been designed as serious; the Suicide being little more in earnest than his hoaxing friends, and the whole having the air of a fantastical masquerade. "They do but jest-poison in jest-no offence in the world." A young linendraper, bolder even than John Gilpin, calmly resolves to dissipate all his fortune in luxurious excesses, and then to bid adieu to the world when it is exhausted. A sentimental lady, who loves him, assumes male attire to preserve him from himself, becomes one of his gay companions, and is consulted as to the best mode of bravely dying. She advises poison, and gives him a dose of harmless medicine as a deadly potion; which he drinks, after making himself completely intoxicated with wine and brandy. When he recovers his senses, he is frightened a little, and at last relieved by a confession which restores him to life, and love, and virtue. The piece, notwithstanding its appalling title, is a mere extravagant fancy, light as the gossamer, and extremely well suited to summer spectators. Charles Kemble's acting as the hero is exquisite, and completes the midsummer masquerade. It is as hard to believe him a retailer of tapes and ribbons, as to conceive a haberdasher calmly resolving to measure out his days and cut the thread of his existence. He gets drunk with the most gentlemanly grace in the world. Among his companions are an author and a player, copied very happily from Joseph Andrews, and very happily embodied by Williams and J. Russell. Their quarrel, recriminations, and embraces, are wrought up to the highest pitch of the ludicrous. The prodigal has also another precious pair of asso

ciates, two most amusing varieties of cowardice, a starch blusterer and a vapouring bully, represented by Connor and Farley to the life. Their duel scene, with its reiterated kickings, passes the bounds of decorum, and would gain "by losing all its grossness." Mrs. Mardyn looks very beautifully, and plays very spiritedly as the pretended Dick Rattle. There is a lively catch, beginning ""Twas you, Sir," performed by Tobine's companions, which has more the air of being really sung by a jovial party than any we have heard on the

stage.

The new comedy of The Dog Days in Bond Street, is of a purer water than The Diamond Ring. Its plot is, indeed, slight and simple; but, not on that account unsuitable to the taste of Haymarket spectators. They seem to have no idea of intrigue at least behind the curtain. They enjoy two comedies and a farce in one evening, which contain, upon a fair average, two incidents and a half. A few broadly ludicrous situations-a few spirited outlines of character a few palpable hits at the reigning extravagancies of fashion-and a few neat puns and well-sounding patriotic sentiments -make a comedy in three acts, which is sure to receive their applauses. Most of the pieces, like this and the last, exhibit something very like a hoax, which the audience enjoy as if they were parties to the jest. The new comedy turns entirely on the scheme of a young man at an hotel in Bond Street, to relieve his friend from the consequences of his extravagancies, by writing to his uncle an account of his decease, which brings money for funeral expenses, and the old gentleman up to town to arrange the affairs of his lamented nephew. The uncle, with his daughter, who is disconsolate for the imaginary loss of the youth whom she had loved, arrive at the very hotel where the nephew and his friend are residing. A series of amusing lies, laughable perplexities, and whimsical situations, arise out of this juxta-position, terminated in the usual way by discovery, forgiveness, and marriage. According to the prologue, the piece is written by a lady resident in Jamaica, from her recollections of the manners of her native land; and some familiar allusions to tornadoes and hurricanes seem to justify the assertion. The language is, in general, neat and pointed, though the jokes are more practical than intellectual. Parts of the dialogue, and the song relating, after the fashion of the age, to pu

gilism, must surely have been supplied by some male friend of the author. They are as tiresome and vulgar as any thing of the kind out of Belsher's tap or Blackwood's Magazine. With the exception of these and a long speech about an oak and a honeysuckle, which is fit only for the Irish bar-the piece is an elegant and spirited trifle. The cool impudence of Jones, who performs the hoaxing friend, is singularly happy. Mrs. Mardyn is interesting in spite of sables and sentiment, neither of which usually become her; and Mr. Liston, though his great power is in the stupid, contrives to throw into the part of a clever knave no small number of his own indescribable graces.

This theatre has been encroaching a little on the province of the English Opera, by the performance of musical pieces, and the engagement of the first of English singers. But the manager of the latter establishment has no right to complain-for he suffers it to err from its original purpose, when he neglects to engage the first-rate vocalists, and depends on lively little farces and interesting melodrames for attraction. This theatre-though made delightful by Miss Kelly, the most delightful of actresses, and her ingenious associates-is not quite what it should be. We would rather hear Mr. Braham there, supported by Pearman and Miss Carew, and an admirable orchestra, than at the Haymarket, where there are none of these ; but we would rather hear him under all disadvantages at the last, than not at all. His noble and richly-cultivated voice-his power to enchant with Italian grace, or to melt by plaintive simplicity at will-the enthusiasm and almost inspiration with which he pours forth a glorious sentiment, or expresses an heroic passion-will ever insure him a deep as well as widely-extended admiration, in spite of the occasional infelicities of his manner, and the dreary tricks of art in which he too often indulges. He has appeared as Henry Bertram in the charming melodramatic opera of Guy Mannering, to most full and most delighted houses. The smallness of the theatre allows the rare treat of catching every delicate turn of the voice in ac cordance with the sentiment, and of drinking in the rich stream of sound with luxurious facility; but is very unfavourable to the general effect of a drama so varied and romantic. The piece is addressed almost as much to the eye as to the ear-the national music gives

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