occasion to say so of a French tragedy-at least in the same sense? These plays have the happy faculty of uniting great vehemence and great coldness. To hear

"Kings rave in couplets, and maids sigh in rhyme,"

is to me something worse than dull. The monotonous cœsura-the jingling rhyme-annoy my ear as much as the total absence of every thing like nature revolts my understanding. I can compare the representation of a French tragedy to nothing but the painting on a Chinese screen, infinitely heightened and overcharged, but at the same time cold, tame, and feeble. If the French wish to keep up the reputation of their tragic poets, they ought to keep them in the library, and never suffer them to approach the stage. I have never seen any even of their first pieces acted, without having my attention completely drawn from the beauties of the poetry by "the furious tame" of the acting, and the want of nature and of dramatic interest in their structure and versification.

I had heard so much of "La Vestale" that I was resolved to see it the first time it was played, and I saw it last night accordingly. The poetry of the opera is by M. de Jouy; and as far as I could distinguish through the the storm of sound in which it was enveloped, it is of much merit. The story, which is of the deepest interest, is well dramatized, and was, in the principal character at least, powerfully acted:—that is, it is well put into action, with the exception-a great one, no doubt-of the catastrophe. After the Vestal is buried alive, her lover comes with a band of armed men, and rescues her. Vesta then tokens her forgiveness by sending down sacred fire to consume the veils of the victim, and more

over, as the High Priest declares, sanctions her union with her lover, to whom her hand is given accordingly, like that of the young lady at the end of a farce. This surely is marring the effect of the truly tragic story, which in the former parts of the piece is so powerfully given. In the ballet on this subject, which Lady Morgan describes as the object of so much enthusiasm at Milan, the Vestal is not rescued, and so the dramatic interest of the piece undoubtedly demands:-but this is one of those sacrifices to bienséance" which is made lest delicate nerves should be too much affected by a nearer approach to the misery and horror of the reality. I can only say that such persons ought not to come to a tragedy; for, unless a tragedy be deep and powerfully affecting, it is the dullest of all things. I do not believe that this story has ever been dramatized as a play. I wonder at it; for I do not know that I ever met with a subject more susceptible of the highest beauties of tragic poetry, both terrible and pathetic. Even with the want of nature of all operas, and the disagreeable character of this music in particular, the interest which the progress of this piece excited in me was most powerful and engrossing.

French serious music I detest; and that of the Vestale has nothing to cause an exception in its favour. Nothing can be more true than the punning character given to it by the facetious Mr. Fudge:

"You may call it the music, says Bob, of the spears,

For I'm cursed if each note of it does not run thro' one

"

The dilettante in Mrs. Cowley's play, who would not marry a girl because she was not fond of a crash, would have been gratified to his heart's content; for any thing like the noise I never heard: I did not think the power of cat-gut and horsehair could go so far.

French dancing is confessedly unrivalled. Here

even the figurantes can dance, which is an advantage we have not in London: they are not composed of the maimed and the halt, as the troop which fills our opera stage appears to be. I think, when we treat for Bias and Noblet so liberally, they ought to throw a dozen or two figurantes into the bargain.

Last night was the first opportunity I had had of seeing Bigottini. The ballet was Nina, her first and favourite part, and she acted it, certainly, incomparably. I had no expectation of seeing such acting in an opera dancer. Nothing can possibly be more powerful than the representation of madness throughout. It is a strange inconsistency in the French that they should have such repugnance to see any thing at all approaching to the horrible represented in a tragedy, while here they enjoy and applaud the most awful of human calamities, given with a force and fidelity almost terrible. I prefer Bigottini even to Bias: there is a quiet perfection, a sort of matter-of-course excellence about her, which raises her above even her delightful competitor. I regret much that she never comes to England.

The pictures of the French school at the Louvre, are placed at the entrance of the gallery, and it is wisely done: they would appear to very ill advantage after the Flemish and Italian. There is something very tawdry about most of these pictures: a straining at effect which is too visible to succeed, and a mass of colouring which is more gaudy than brilliant-harsh rather than powerful. Of course, there are some exceptions to this; there must be, as Claude Lorraine's pictures are in this division. The French modestly class this painter among the French school, because he happened to be born in Lorraine; which, by the way, did not then belong to

France; although his master was an Italian, he passed the greater part of his life in Italy, and painted entirely in the Italian taste.

Vernet's pictures also are some of them very beautiful; and, here and there, you meet a fine picture in this part of the gallery, which strikes you the more as differing strongly from the affected and meretricious style of those around it. There is one very extraordinary picture, which I found to be quite modern, being the production of a young pupil of David, named Cochereau, who died four years ago at the age of four-and-twenty. The subject is the "Interieur de l'atelier d'un peintre, où l'on voit plusieurs élèves occupés de l'étude du modèle." The management of the light is what renders this piece so striking; the lower part of the window is closed, and a piece of linen is placed over the rest to throw the light in a particular manner and degree on the man who sits as model. The way in which the light is represented shining through · the white cloth is one of the most extraordinary things I have seen in painting; I should conceive it difficult, and I never saw any thing done with such wonderful truth to Nature. A woman was copying this picture, which, considering the model is the figure of a naked man, strikes "nous autres Anglais" as something strange. There are many female artists copying in the Louvre just now, but I think this rather an odd choice of subject.

I was struck yesterday with two very beautiful pictures, by Philippe Van Dyck. They represent Sarah presenting Hagar to Abraham, and Abraham turning Hagar and her child into the desert. I recollect Lady Morgan mentions a picture she saw, I think, at Florence, on the latter subject, in a way which gave me

great desire to see it; I should scarcely think it more beautiful than this. The utter wretchedness of Hagar,the cruelty of Abraham, chequered with shame for treating one he had loved so brutally-the triumphant malice of Sarah, and the snarling look of the little Isaac as he draws back from the adieux of Ismaël, are all given with the greatest truth and talent. I know few subjects more thoroughly poetical than this: I wonder it has never been made use of by any of our writers. Madame de Staël has touched upon it, but I think it capable of much more developement than is given to it in her short drama. The picture of Sarah giving Hagar to her husband has great beauty and volupté in the execution, but the subject necessarily renders it inferior to its fellow.

I have not been much of late to the Théatre Français, for I must confess it is to me "joliment ennuyeux;" and I do not like being bored, even though it be being bored classically: but last night I did go, as they acted Iphigénie, and Mlle. Duchesnois was the Clytemnestre. Mlle. Duchesnois has certainly talent, and I may say would, under other circum tances, have been a very good actress; but she has not force of genius to carry her out of the routine of French established tragedy, and all in that routine I do consider totally out of nature, and consequently bad. I wish one could write sounds, that I might convey some idea of the inflection of voice which is used in passionate declamation in French. The transition is as great, and often almost as sudden as from the highest to the lowest note of an ass's bray. I do not mean any thing invidious to M. M. les Acteurs, by the mention of this respectable quadruped; but the exclamations of " Mon père!"" Qu'entends-jè!!" « Oh,