A GLANCE AT THE DRAMA.

AT length we have shaken off the apathy that so long kept us in ice, and have made up our mind to furnish the readers of "The Miscellany" with a brief monthly account of what has been done, or is doing, at our Metropolitan Theatres,-at such of them, at least, as offer entertainments which a rational being may trust himself to see, and venture to confess that he has seen.

In times gone by, the dramatic critic had an easy and a delightful life of it. He had only to recruit his snuff-box, walk or be driven to "the Garden" or "the Lane," take his accustomed seat in the pit, and record the triumphs of a Kean or a Young, a Liston, a Farren, or a Glover. But now his duties call him hither and thither, up and down all that "piece or parcel of land, situate, lying, and being " within the bills of mortality. "The Garden" yields a weekly rhetorical crop of cheap corn, and "the Lane" is saturated with bribed sweetness, and undulates beneath the pressure of the fantastic toe. As Queen Eleanor sank at Queenhithe and came out at Charing Cross, so Shakspeare went down between Hart and Brydges Street, and has come up again in all parts of the town and suburbs. Shylock claims his pound of flesh at Whitechapel, Othello's occupation's gone to Norton Falgate, and Richard's himself again at the New River Head. If a new Garrick is to appear, there is a theatre in Goodman's Fields for him, and a second Siddons may obtain an engagement at Marylebone. The dramatic critic now-adays, to be thoroughly worthy of his vocation, must eschew all unpleasing and intrusive recollections, bid farewell to the haunts of his youth and middle age, and taking Mogg's Map of London resolutely in hand, prepare to go east, west, north, or south, as occasion may call out upon him.

At present, however, we propose to throw merely a general glance of reminiscence over the proceedings of some of our many theatres, our intent being to be more amongst them for the future, that we may take strict note of their ongoings. Courtesy, or custom, bids us this once give precedence to Old Drury.

DRURY LANE.-Mr. Bunn has long since thrown the legitimate drama overboard; but whether his vessel sail the better for such a lightening, is another question. Our readers are well aware that he conducts his theatre in the spirit of the old fellow in the song, who tells us

"My wife shall dance and I will sing,"

but whether eternal song and saltation are the wisest means of driving dull care away from the precincts of his treasury, we know not. Balfe and ballet are almost the sole attractions here; Mr. Balfe is a gentleman of a pretty musical genius, and sagaciously conversant with the works of the modern Italian school, on which he builds himself, and from which he draws his pretensions, so that the encouragement of native talent in his case is obvious. But the Daughter of St. Mark wanted "more power to her elbow." She has made no such hit as the Bohemian Girl had succeeded in planting on the ear of the British public, and Robert the Devil has been evoked, and for such a personage, it must be admitted, he does his spiriting gently. That strain being of a higher mood, however, demands a class of artists such as Mr. Bunn has not at his disposal. Meyerbeer, expounded by mediocrity, will not do. Robert the Devil has been done much better within the memory of miss in her teens, but we will make no invidious comparisons; and the getting up was not such as the bills-those Pintos of the press-had almost led us to expect. Then, of the "many twinkling feet" pervading the boards during the season, none have equalled Carlotta Grisi in "The Peri," and "poetry of motion "not of the highest excellence, will draw no better than doggrel jig or unrhythmetical hornpipe. We are promised Duprez and Eugenie Garcia after Easter.

COVENT GARDEN.-M. Laurent commenced a brief season of so many nights at Christmas last, was encouraged to venture upon a second, and would fain have tried his fortune with a third, but the Fates, or perhaps the stars, forbade it. The great "feature" of M. Laurent's management was his production of "Antigone." The novelty of a Greek play, presented after the Grecian manner, brought the first house, but the fine declamation of Vandenhoff, and the admirable acting of his daughter, insured its success. Nature has been kind to this young lady; she is gifted likewise with excellent abilities, and, rarest of all, with judgment, which has taught her that genius alone can do little more than make a fool of itself. Accordingly, she has studied, if not after high models - for where are they to be found? -yet with a due sense and knowledge that acting is an art, and that, since ShaksVOL. XVII.

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peare, and all the dramatists worth stage-room, have artfully clothed their great conceptions in poetry, something more than "abandonment" and "intensity" are required fitly to illustrate them. We have not only great hopes, but a full expectation, that Miss Vandenhoff will, at no distant day, approve herself indeed an actress. We wish we could believe that Mr. Betty, who made his first London appearance here, could be changed by time and study into a great actor; but time and study will do much, and to these we leave him.

A new play by Mr. Spicer, entitled "Honesty," was brought forward, and was well received by the audience. It was not quite the true thing, but we have seen worse plays better liked. Mr. Hackett, the American comedian, adventured Sir John Falstaff. It was strange to see such a performance from a native of the “goa-head" republic. Such painstaking! such elaboration! such a wit in buckram! and yet, such an assurance all the while, that Mr. Hackett will, one of these days, produce fat Jack" before us in all his richness and soundness. His Rip Van Winkle was great. The manner in which he detected, pursued, and caught this character was masterly. There is a talk that Macready is in treaty for this theatre; but, we conjecture, the engagement with the Anti-Corn Law League for their bazaar is not to be dissolved.

THE HAYMARKET. It is all very well to talk of the decline of the national taste for the legitimate drama, but Mr. Webster has found that by sticking to the lighter department of it, comedy (for which his theatre is best fitted), "profits will accrue." Early in the season, Vanbrugh's "Confederacy" was brought forward, all the naughty having been flogged out of it, for

"Van wanted grace, who never wanted wit."

This genuine comedy from the hand of so great a master was, as we thought, gaining ground with the public, when, lo! an impression got abroad that the delicacy of the age ought to be shocked at it, and that the characters, ably as they are drawn, were indurated, heartless beings, in whom no one could, or should, take an interest. Everybody must perceive how consistent with that impression was the rage which now possessed the public for that truly respectable and moral fellow, Don Cæsar De Bazan. So much has been said and written of Mr. Bourcicault's "Old Heads and Young Hearts," that we shall add little to it. The author has advanced. It is as well constructed and better written than his former comedies ; but he must chastise and polish his diction yet more, ere he may take such rank as he aims at, and as his talents may attain. Peake's "Sheriff of the County" was wrongly named when it was called a comedy; but the thing is a face-widener of no ordinary expansive power. We shall report upon Planche's new burlesque next month.

THE ADELPHI.-Why should we ring the changes on "The Chimes," which pealed out their last long ago? We have little to say of the doings at this theatre. Success has, for the most part, attended it, and its last novelty, "The Green Bushes," which have flourished wonderfully during the winter, is still strong of attraction. There is a burlesque entitled "St. George and the Dragon" at this theatre, of which we cannot now speak.

THE PRINCESS's.- Opera was going on melodiously here, supported by Wallack's Don Cæsar de Bazan, when Mr. Forrest and Miss Cushman sailed "o'er the deep Atlantic stream" and Mr. Graham, flushed with Parisian laurels, took the theatre by storm. We remember Mr. Forrest seven years since. He was then a melodramatic actor of Red Indian vigour; he is now a careful, studied, graduating performer, likely to become almost great. We do not say it because we cannot forget Kean in the part; but Forrest's Othello is very far from excellence. We suspect with what truth we know not- that “Othello" is not often played in the United States. It is not likely that the tragic perplexities of a black man would very strongly move the American emotions. We conclude Mr. Forrest has not yet sufficiently meditated the part. But surely, strong hopes must be entertained of a man who has played Lear with so much force and power. We have seen so little of Miss Cushman, that we have not yet formed an established judgment of her abilities. She has intellect and soul; but she must not heed those who would goad her into "the intense :" "that way madness lies," or melodrama, which is pretty nearly the same thing. Shakspeare is not intense. Kotzebue, Werner, and some of our modern English playwrights are the men for that sort of thing. A burlesque here too! "Timour; the Cream of all the Tartars." The draught must stand over.

THE LYCEUM.

People praised highly Mr. Keeley's Trotty Veck in "The

Chimes " produced at this pleasant theatre, but we confess we did not think him a "triple bob major." Neither can we greatly extol his Orson. He wants-and Mrs. Keeley partakes the want-the true, solid, tear-mouth spirit, that audacious,

headstrong dulness which triumphantly bears down and tramples upon sense and reason. The Keeleys seem to petition for the indulgence of the audience, and appear to know that they are making fools of themselves-a fatal consciousness in such matters. Farquhar's "Recruiting Officer" is to be brought forward. The cast, with an exception or two, affords expectations of its success. We must not

omit to mention Mr. Emery as a most valuable member of the Lyceum company. His Will Fern was worthy of his father. A burlesque at this theatre likewise! Something too much of this; and yet, if the public do not say so, why should we complain?

SADLER'S WELLS.-Some seven or eight months since, Mrs. Warner and Mr. Phelps took this theatre, and they have been presenting the legitimate with mighty perseverance, producing, however, only one new play, The Priest's Daughter," by Mr. Serle. That gentleman pleaded the benefit of clergy—that is to say, he showed that he could write; but his play made little impression, and was speedily withdrawn. "The Bridal," altered some years ago for Macready, from Beaumont and Fletcher's "Maid's Tragedy," has been the great card here; and in this mangled play, "carved like a dish fit for the gods," Mrs. Warner and Mr. Phelps appear to the greatest advantage. Massinger's "City Madam," altered likewise, the character of Luke being psychologically destroyed, was, we believe, not so successful. But many of Shakspeare's plays have been brought out here; for nothing comes amiss to Mr. Phelps, who is wonderfully " up to the business." King John, Hamlet, Richard the Third, Macbeth, and Othello-they are all the same to him—and we must add, pretty much the same to the audience. Mr. Phelps is a very good, serviceable actor, and we are not unaware that Sadler's Wells Theatre is out of town; but he is nowhere equal to King John and Hamlet, and should not attempt them. That the Ghost was not frightened out of his propriety, and that Claudius was not carbonaded long before, struck us as remarkable, when we witnessed the Hamlet of Mr. Phelps. Mrs. Warner, too, loves to go, or is led, out of her element. Nothing can be much better than her Emilia and Queen Margaret; but her Lady of Lyons will not do by any means; and Knowles's "Wife," with her Hibernian impulse, should be subdued, not coloured.

THE SURREY.-The entertainments at this theatre have been, we hear, for the most part, of a higher character than heretofore. A good report has reached us of two plays by Mr. Smith, entitled respectively "The Protector," and " Wolsey." We know not why something sterling should not find favour on the other side of the water. Mrs. Davidge has a very fair company. Mrs. Honner is a lady of far greater and more genuine talent than many who make imposing pretensions; and Mr. Hughes is a tragedian whom a long course of cut-and-thrust heroes cannot spoil.

THE DEATH OF SOMBREUIL,*

THE GOVERNOR OF THE INVALIDES AT PARIS.

BY WILLIAM JONES.

'Twas a woman's wailing cry!-
Piercing and loud in its agony :
Waking the echoes in many a cell
Of that lone and gloomy citadel ;—

Thrilling the hearts of the captives there,

And causing their lips to move in pray'r :

For it seem'd, as the silence of eve it broke,

To come from the doom'd 'neath the headsman's stroke!

* “The venerable Sombreuil, governor of the Invalides,' was brought out in turn, and condemned to be sent to La Force. His daughter, perceiving him in the prison, rushed amidst the pikes and swords of his conductors, took him in her arms, entreating his murderers with such accents of grief to save him, that their fury gave way. And to prove further her sensibility, Drink,' they cried to the generous girl, drink the blood of the aristocrats!' at the same time offering a goblet, which she emptied, and her father was saved."

THIERS' French Revolution.

A moment's pause,—and again that sound
Peal'd through the depths of the keep profound :
'Twas the voice of a sorrowing maiden come,
To that place of guilt, from her childhood's home;
To seek for a father borne away

To a dungeon far from the light of day :-
They had brought him thence, and it was to die,
But he knew no fear, for his child was nigh!

Near him-amidst the crew that stood,
Thirsting to shed his heart's warm blood;
Near him when earthly hope had past,

And the few brief words he spoke were his last!
Near him-alone in the murderers' power,
To cheer his soul in the closing hour,
And hallow its flight to the realms above!
-Sombreuil was moved, as he bless'd her love!

And she, that beautiful, gentle one,
Who had lived for him, and him alone,
Bitterly wept as she clung to his side,
And craved for the mercy, as oft denied ;
Shewing his silvery locks of age

To wake remorse, or to calm their rage: "Oh, spare him!" she cried, on her bended knee, Let the death be mine, so my sire is free!"

'Twas a touching scene! The brave old chief,
Striving to soothe his daughter's grief,
While, shielding his form in a close embrace,-
Her damp cheek press'd to his care-worn face,—
The maiden gazed on his foes awhile,

Seeking for hope in their looks of guile :
But stern and dark were those brows of sin,
The index meet of their hearts within!

"Thy father is noble! Why should he live?
Yet freedom and safety to him we give,

If thou wilt quaff of this goblet, fill'd
With the blood of our tyrant,-yet unchill'd!
Drink! drink! 'twill make thee forget the shame
Of having a hateful minion's name!
Drink! drink! or the blade is ready to fall,
And thy father's life will be past recall!"

The maiden turn'd from the loathsome sight
With a shriek of horror, and wild affright:
One struggle more,—and affection gain'd,—
Nor drop of that draught accursed remain'd!
Oh, woman's love! thou art tried in woe,
Many and dark are thine ills below;
Sombreuil went forth from that spot defiled,
Redeem'd from death by his faithful child!

THE MARCHIONESS OF BRINVILLIERS,

THE POISONER OF THE SEVENTEENTH

A ROMANCE OF OLD PARIS.

BY ALBERT SMITH.

CENTURY.

[WITH TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. LEECH.]

CHAPTER XIII.

Gaudin learns strange secrets in the Bastille.

It was not until Galouchet, the gaoler, entered the chamber of the Tour de la Liberté the next morning, that Sainte-Croix awoke from his slumbers,-from one of those bright dreams of freedom, triumph, and happiness - albeit always tempered with some vague mistrust-which haunt our sleeping existence, the fairer in their visioned prospects, the more gloomy and hopeless the reality.

Exili had already risen. He was looking over the contents of a small chest, of carved wood, placed on the table before him. The gaoler was apparently making preparations for breakfast, clattering some metal plates upon the undraped and rude table; and, in the fire-place, the dense smoke was creeping through some hissing pieces of damp wood, as the sap sputtered and bubbled from their ends. Gaudin stared about him confusedly. The last impression of his dreams was mingled with his waking sensations; and he remained silent for a few moments, after some incoherent words, to collect his senses. Exili muttered some conventional salute, and then went on with his scrutiny, whilst Galouchet, having put the table in order, according to his own notions, offered his assistance towards completing Sainte-Croix's toilet.

"What charge will Monsieur choose to defray for his nourishment?" asked the gaoler, as Gaudin rose from his pallet. "What do you expect?" inquired Sainte-Croix.

"Parbleu! we have all prices. You may live like a prince for fifty livres a-day, or starve like a valet for two.

This will include your washing, if you are not over-fond of clean linen, and a candle a-night. The fire-wood you must pay for separately."

Gaudin looked towards the fire-place, and the struggling flame. "Ah!" said Galouchet, divining his thoughts: "the wood is rather damp, to be sure, but that makes it last the longer; and as you and Monsieur Exili occupy the same room, it will come cheaper."

"Is there news in the city this morning, Galouchet?" asked Exili. "But little," returned the functionary. "Pierre, the scullion, sleeps out of the fortress, and tells me that an éboulement took place last night, and the Bièvre burst into some of the carrières of St. Marcel; and fell so rapidly, in consequence, that all the mills this side of St. Medard were stopped for three hours." "Was anybody lost?" inquired the physician.

"It is believed so. A party of Bras d'Acier's gang were hunted out of the vaults between the Cordelières and Montrouge, like rats in our cachots, when the rains come; and one of the superintendents

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