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he came over to England, and entered himself as a pupil of the celebrated Fribourg. He became the inventor of "Canáster," of No. 37, of The floral mixture, and even made some improvements in "high-dried." He was a great advocate for the system of driving out one disease by another; and invented a poison (made of the Lamas and the Ticunas-Indian specifics) which, had it been adopted, would have completely put the measles to flight, and expatriated the hydrophobia. He was the only person acquainted with the virtues of Dr. Solomon's Balm of Gilead, and Dr.

Brodum's nervous cordial. He was the inventor of Day and Martin's blacking, and the Congreve rockets (he sold the patents to the present proprietors). He was the first man who perceived the connexion between the Aurora Borealis and the French

Revolution. He constructed the automaton chess player and the invisible girl, and gave the first hint of lighting London with gas. He was an excellent arithmetician, a sound theologian, a good poet and whist-player, a tender father of a family, and a virtuous man. He has left a wife and 17 small children to lament his death, which will be long felt, not only by them, but by the whole scientific and literary world. He is buried in the Protestant church at Strasburg, and a tomb, with an elegant inscription, by Messrs. Mokriffchusky and Price, (proprietors of the Russia oil,) has been erected to his memory.

GUST. VOSTERMANN.

By the bye, Gasco Mendez, mentioned in that very clever scene, The Voyage, a Dramaticle," (in your last number,) may be related perhaps to Popolino's ancestor. G.V.

GERMAN HONESTY AND SIMPLICITY.

“An inhabitant of Leipsic," says Madame de Staël, "having planted an apple-tree on the borders of a public walk, affixed a notice to it, requesting that people would not gather the fruit." How the wise acres and "knowing-ones" laugh at the trusting simpleton! But hark! "not an apple was stolen during ten years." So much for a people, all of whom read and think. In Eng

land there are not a few who have resisted the instruction of the poor, lest it should corrupt them; but, with the protection of ignorance, what would have been the fate of the apple-tree in the neighbourhood of London ? What a contrast between this respected tree with its harmless defence, and the steel-traps and spring-guns of our British Pomona!

PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST.

It has been much questioned amongst the learned, whether there be such things (or nothings) as ghosts; but whether or not, and leaving this argument to the curious, the following may be relied upon as an instance of extraordinary presence of mind in an apparition.

In the year 1421, the widow of Ralph Cranbourne, of Dipmore End, in the parish of Sandhurst, Berks, was one midnight alarmed by a noise in her bed-chamber, and, looking up, she saw at her bed foot the appearance of a Skeleton (which she verily believed was her Husband), nodding and talking to her upon its fingers, or finger-bones, after the manner of a dumb person. Whereupon she was so terrified, that after striving to scream aloud, which she could not, for her tongue clave to her mouth, she fell backward as in a swoon;

yet not so insensible withal but she could see that at this the Figure be came greatly agitated and distressed, and would have clasped her, but upon her appearance of loathing it desisted, only moving its jaw upward and downward, as if it would cry for help but could not for want of its parts of speech. At length, she growing more and more faint, and likely to die of fear, the Spectre suddenly, and as if at a thought, began to swing round its hand, which was loose at the wrist, with a brisk motion, and the finger bones being long and hard, and striking sharply against each other, made a loud noise, like to the springing of a watchman's rattle. At which alarm, the neighbours running in, stoutly armed, as against thieves or murderers, the spectre suddenly departed.

Hist, Berks, vol, xxv. p. 976.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

THE DRAMA.

Mr. Kean and Mr. Young. When we expressed our anxiety to see Mr. Kean and Mr. Young perform together in the same play, we must honestly own, we had not the smallest expectation of witnessing a well-contested struggle on both sides, or of seeing in the two actors alter nate success and alternate failure:we looked for the exaltation of the natural style over the artificial. We longed to see Mr. Kean spirited up by the presence of Mr. Young (the self-elected chief tragedian of the day) to do such deeds as Genius can ever do when it is bearded by its imitator. Those who saw Mr. Kean annihilate Mr. Junius Brutus Booth on the memorable night of their Othello meeting, will know how the former can be irritated into greatness, on great occasions. We have heard from pretty good authority that Mr. Booth protested in the Greenroom, that he was terrified at Mr. Kean's earnestness and fury-and that he would not continue the tragedy with him: by great persuasion only, was he induced to go through with his part. It had been given out that Booth closely resembled Kean. They met,-and Kean wrung the neck of his rival's glory for ever! When it was arranged by Mr. Elliston that Young and Kean were to appear together, the daily papers vaunted much of "the union of talent" being brought about by their means-amused the idle curiosity of the town with alternate praises of the one and the other-eulogized Young's classic attainments and correct deportment-said handsome things of "the little Jupiter Tonans ;"-in short, gave out that there would be a sort of grand dramatic prize-fight on a certain day, at which the Randall and Martin of the drama were to show which "was the best man." The battle was well got up. On the great night, “vehicles were in motion at an early hour," as the Reporters have it. The scene of action was crowded almost to suffocationthe bell-no-the ring was whipped out at a little before seven-and in a few minutes after that hour, Mr.

Young, with Penley for his second, and Talent for his bottle-holder, threw his hat (with his head in it) into the ring! He was loudly cheered, and certainly looked confident and well. In due time, Kean, with Elliston for his bottle-holder (unrivalled in this department), and Genius for his se cond, followed. The pit waved hats and handkerchiefs the galleries whistled through their shrill and expressive knuckles the boxes ap plauded with an orderly enthusiasm

and the fight commenced. We must not, we fear, continue this style of criticism, although it is really the most fitted for the occasion-but if our readers will dip into Boxiana, and read the account of Randall and Martin's first contest-they will have a tolerably correct notion of the manner in which the struggle was carried on. Young was long, cautious,→→ measured-and collected:-Kean was quick,-muscular,—compact, — and graceful,we dare say no more

after this fashion." Let us remember where we are, and of whom we are speaking.

It may be remembered by our rea➡ ders that we promised to be present on the night of Othello, when Kean and Young should perform together,

and we kept our words like true men and critics, by engaging seats a week, at least, before the eventful play, and by occupying them at an early hour on the night. We were delighted to see a handsome house filled to the very throat, with people of respectability and intellect-all anxious to behold two several great ones of the city meet in mental struggle and in the warfare of passion. The critics were all there. The great lovers of the Drama were plentifully scattered over the house. The resolute play-goers were on their appointed benches near the orchestra-wiping their red glowing faces in the misty pit, and looking in a sort of wonder at the cold formal people who came quietly into the house and the boxes, in treason, as it were to the true spirit of the night. Some bald noble heads, of acknowledged taste, were sprinkled in the private boxes. And the aspect of the night was generally

one of deep intellectual interest. Why was all this? What could it be, but the fond expectation of seeing the triumph of genius ;-the general belief that Kean would tower with gigantic superiority over all his former efforts. Time wore tediously away to the tune of clapping benches and doors, and the hubbub of a full pit. The musicians dropped in with their usual indifference to the interest of the scene. The lights arose, gilding the green of the curtain. The very scent of the theatre became more fragrant," that mixture of orange peel and oil," as Mathews so well describes it.

The overture finished-the lights drooped as per order; and the curtain ascended, baring the Venetian house of old Signor Brabantio to the gaping multitude. The several entrances of Young and Kean were the signals to the separate partizans of the two rivals to shout the very roof off the new house, and make the gilt pillars tremble in their shoes. Young was dressed like a cavalier in the time of Charles, and looked extremely well as a cavalier-but he looked nothing Venetian; Kean was habited as usual, and, rich as the dress is, we think it very ill-suited to his figure. The Iago of Mr. Young failed in points which we should have considered him safe in; the character wanted ease, gaiety, and keeping. In the scenes with Roderigo there was a vulgarity about his manner, and a broad brawling craftiness which not even such a fool as Roderigo ought to be duped with. The customary mouthing and word-measurement of Mr. Young made dead havoc with the acute villany of Iago: and those who are deep-learned in the drawling lisping cadences of Mr. Young's voice will conceive how tediously and miserably the fine third act dragged over his tongue. In the scene where he first stings the Moor's mind, he looked all kinds of tragic things, and clung to the hints he uttered as though he never would part with them. It is not by the studied mystery of Iago-by dark looks and fearful starts, that Othello is seduced to jealousy:-The careless half shaped hints-light and apparently unmeaning questions-casual and momentary surprise-by these the noble nature of the Moor is abused.

Not until Othello's passions have lashed themselves to madness does Iago venture to unhood his suspicions, and to pamper jealousy with circumstance. We always have thought the scene in the third act, commencing with Iago's question of "Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed your lady, know of your love?" as being the most terrific and intense piece of dramatic writing ever accomplished. There is in it no bombast of language or of thought. It is peculiarly colloquial and simple in its commencement-and never rises into poetry until the passion of the Moor is stirred. Young, in representing this fine scene, anticipated the horrors he was breeding, too much in his looks,-too much in his voice and manners. He carried his purpose in his face. The truth is, that Mr. Young, with all his classical attainments, has not the wit to understand the finely drawn character of Iago; and instead therefore of giving it with a high spirit of intellect and gaiety, he touches it off in the old established tragic fashionand brings all the villany out into the foreground. Kean was great, as we expected-surpassingly great.And in the third act, he let himself loose on the ocean of his passion, and drove on in darkness and in tempest, like an abandoned bark! The agony of heart was the fiery Moorish agony! not cramped in within an actor's or a schoolman's confine, but fierce, ungovernable, dangerous. You knew not what he would do next, in the madness of his spirit:-he knew not himself what he should do! Mr. Young wisely kept to his preconcerted plan, and acted by rule steadily. One of the finest instantaneous actions of Kean was his clutching his black hand slowly round his head, as though his brain were turning; and then writhing round and standing in dull agony, with his back to the audience :-what other performer would so have forgotten himself? We think Mr. Kean played more intensely on Mr. Booth's benefit, but then he had a motive and a cue for passion, which with Mr. Young was wanting. He had to show that Mr. Booth was not of his quality. No one accuses Mr. Young of approaching him.

The play in its other characters

was poorly filled. Where was Mr. Elliston for Cassio? Is the part beneath his notice-or does Mr. Young stipulate for his exclusion? Elliston has the round merry face and handsome laughing eye which are suited for the part-he is of smooth dispose. Poor Terry, with his wise face and iron tones, was sentenced to hard labour in the character for the night. And, to be sure, with Mr. Young to suggest jealousy, and Mr. Terry to be the object suspected, Mr. Kean's monster must have been peculiarly green-eyed. Mr. Terry is a sensible man, and therefore he played under, as the phrase is,-but do what he would, he could not look or speak like the gallant Cassio, "framed to make women false." Mrs. W. West bravadoed rather in Desdemona: and Penley, in Roderigo, carried on a minor rivalry of power with Mr. Powell, in Brabantio.

Old and Young.-Miss C. Fisher.An ingenious piece under this title has been produced, for the purpose of exhibiting the surprising talents of Miss C. Fisher in various and opposite characters. This little girl is, in herself, worth a bushel of grown-up actresses whose names we could mention; but whatever pleasure her cleverness occasions, it is damped by the consciousness which we feel, that this cleverness must and will outgrow itself. We look upon the vast dome of Drury Lane as the hothouse glass that forces her beauty and her talent to early maturity and premature decay. No present salary can be a compensation to her for the ruin which is being brought upon her mind!

COVENT GARDEN. Maid Marian.

Robin Hood-and his gallant men of Sherwood-hunters of the deer under the green shades of the forest -feasters at the wild-wood tablebold men and true at the quarterstaff-your only 66 Constitutional Association" for the preservation of liberty-are like eagles caged-or as chained lions, when penned within the petty limits of a theatre. "Grieve and assistants" are great men, as all lovers of a romantic scene can attest; but "Grieve and assistants" may paint away, till their brushes have not a hair left upon their heads,

JAN. 1823.

and still not succeed in giving the mind even a distant idea of Sherwood Forest, with its soft verdant turfpleasant waters-and wilderness of broad trunks. Robin Hood's oaks are of the open air-they must look freedom and serenity.

A new Opera, with Robin Hood for its hero, has been produced at Covent Garden, with all the accustomed splendour of dress, scenery, and appointments, for which that theatre is so deservedly celebrated. But although the dialogue was taken chiefly from the most spirited passages of the great novelist (as the author of Ivanhoe is called, to distinguish him from Fielding and Smollett), and although the songs were agreeable modern versions of the fine wild ballads of the olden timestill the characters came poorly off

and the interest continually flagged almost to the Opera's destruction. Robin Hood had his vest of Lincoln Green, his bugle slung over his forest-coat, his cap and buskins fitted for the dewy wood. But he had no space to wander in, and trod his poor allowance of stage and mimic wilderness with confined and spiritless tread-mocking at liberty. The white bear at Exeter Change seemed not more limited in his movements. What indeed is Robin Hood without his free range of hill and brake? What is he, unless the true trees are over him, and the forest airs in his face? What, without the bounding hart fleeting before his whistling arrow, and his foot ready for the track? When a curtain can be drawn over Sherwood Forest, and the summer wind can play overture to the songs of Maid Marian and her serving men, then we shall have hope of Robin Hood becoming a fit hero for an Opera; but until the Forest itself shall be the stage, the notes of Robin must be as the notes of the caged lark-a song to lost liberty!

Having thus spoken of the hopeless task of any one attempting a successful Drama on this subject, from the impossibility of mastering the spirit of outlawry-we shall proceed to speak of the present opera of Maid Marian, as it is acted. If a play could be attractive in which Robin Hood, William Gamwell, and Little John are imprisoned-the pre

H

sent production would stand no ill chance of success? There is a mass of famous men and women. Richard the First is splendidly introduced. Robert, Earl of Locksley, has his merry men all fitly appareled-Maid Marian sings, so that you would think the green boughs were woven over her head-and that the forest echoes might awaken at such sweet breath. All that could be done, is done.

Mr. Abbott, in the Earl of Lock ley, is, perhaps, a falling off; for it requires something more than respectability to fill the part of the brave outlaw; and, unfortunately, no living performer so often calls this fatal word of negative praise into use as Mr. Abbott. We are not at all aware of any reasonable obstacle standing between the character and Mr. Macready-for whom indeed we think it eminently fitted. We remember this gentleman's spirited sketch of Rob Roy and cannot help thinking that he makes a mistaken husbandry of his talents when he refuses lending himself to the performance of romantic characters, of this description, although they do not exactly come within the circle of the legitimate drama. Mr. Macready's Rob Roy was the Freebooter himself-rudely and strongly dashed off, and proudly showing the hand of a master. If he had played Robin Hood,-which, for his own sake, and that of the public, we think he ought to have done-we should then have seen an outlaw worthy of Sherwood. The elastic foot, and manly mellow voice of Macready, are such as our fancy gives to Robin. Mr. Abbott, respectable as he is, is not the light, free, fearless man we dream of. He is not of the trees!The summer light is not in his eye the summer airs are not in his face. His limbs are not springy-as though they were ever forest-free! Robin Hood should show to the eye as the man who could hit the flying hart-or run him down on the merry hills!-We fear Mr. Macready is giving in to the hateful vices of the stage-and that he is for standing aloof from particular characters, and in particular dramas. He is certainly a gentleman of great and undoubted talent, and should not be above playing any

part which would show that talent to advantage; he should remember that he gained much of his present popularity by his powerful delineations of romantic characters,-and that now to whistle them off, is betraying a want of prudence and good sense, which we should not expect to find in him. Garrick was not above playing Abel Drugger.

Mr. Charles Kemble made an excellent, jolly, tipsy, taking Abbot, (of course not the respectable Abbott). His bald head seemed mocked by his handsome merry visage

and the long grey cloak and holy insignia were admirably unformalized by the loose eye, swinging arms, hands flask-filled, and staggering feet, of the young confessor. His voice pitched and tossed about like a yessel in distress-and he himself never stood still, but appeared to be riding at anchor. He really drank, hallooed, and sang, like a true monk

and the soul of good fellowship reigned in his reeling eye!-We never saw Charles Kemble so happy, wild, and spirited. Rubygill Abbey, with six such fellows as he, would make no bad palace for merry Christmas!

Baron Fitzwater, a tetchy old Baron, built rather upon the Anthony Absolute scale, was given to Mr. Farren, and was not badly played by that gentleman. But Mr. Farren is too rigid a performer for any character out of the old school of stiff genteel comedy! A Mr. Hunt Gog'd the part of Little John to admiration.

The music is extremely pretty, though it has the freebooter's mark a little too strongly upon it in certain parts. We have heard some of the notes somewhere before. But let that pass!

We must not conclude without expressing our delight at Miss M. Tree's performance-her name seemed to be her nature. She was Maid Marian to the life. When she sang, and when she spake, the forest of Sherwood spread its green boughs in the air, the herd went trooping by, and the ear seemed to feel the noise of the foresters, and the rustling of the forest leaves come swooning upon the air as in the very days of the merry merry Outlaw-Bold Robin Hood!

The Huguenot.-This extravagant play, from the extravagant pen

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