Lear, which this gentleman played first, though a wonderful perform ance, did not enable the spectators clearly to judge of his qualifications for the highest line of acting. A per son bent down as by a weight of years, a face hidden by a beard "so old and white" as to deface its expression, and the unvaried assumption of a feeble and querulous voice, baffled all endeavours to estimate his physical powers. Nor could any fair judgment be formed of the compass of his intellectual faculties; for he so entirely put on extreme age and feebleness throughout, as to deprive himself of the use of his natural tones, and greatly to encumber him in action. This was, we think, unwise. We are aware of the dilemma into which every actor, who attempts to perform Lear, is thrown; and only regret that Mr. Vandenhoff chose the greatest of two evils. The part cannot be played by an old man, because no actor could give the tremendous impulse, which inconceivable agony supplies to the trembling age of Lear. If a young and stout-lunged man attempts it, he must either give up its old age, or its intensity and grandeur. To mimic feebleness through five long acts, is task sufficient, without the endeavour to engraft on it the awful expressions of rage, madness, and despair. Besides, these can never be represented as springing naturally from a manner so entirely artificial, and preserved by so severe an exertion. In his marvellous portraiture of the age, therefore, Mr. Vandenhoff lost almost all the passion, and all the kingliness of this mighty character. He was "a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upwards," and little more. There were no traces of dignified courtesy in his demeanour, no vast fragments of bewildered intellect, in the wanderings of his mind. He seemed like a poor maniac, who fancied himself a king, without any genuine recollections of a throne, and had dressed himself in regal attire in self-mockery. No Justice of the peace would have feared to lay hands upon him. In the earlier scenes, his questions, "Does any one know Lear?"-" Does Lear walk

thus?" and "Your name, fair gentlewoman?" were mere enquiries on matters of fact, made by an old man in his dotage. When amidst the storm, instead of striving to out-rave its fury, he addressed the elements in tones of weak expostulation, as if he were on familiar terms with them. Throughout the mad scenes, though the strayings of a bewildered mind were most affectingly pourtrayed, his tones were entirely unsuited to the fragments of divine philosophy, which he uttered, and might fitly have communicated the ravings of an ordinary lunatic. It is, however, wonderful how much he really effected. The curse on his daughters--the recognition of Cordelia-and the transition to feebleness after killing the two assassins-were more finely managed than we have ever yet seen them. Charles Kemble, in Edgar, was even more wildly magnificent than usual. Miss Foote played the Cordelia of Shakespeare deliciously, and failed only in the boisterous additions of Tate. Can we say any thing more decisive in her praise?

Mr. Vandenhoff, who was disguised in Lear, came out in Sir Giles Overreach, and exhibited a tall figure, intelligent, but not strongly marked features, and a voice sufficiently powerful, but rather of a coarse quality. He displayed great judgment in many passages; but pitched the whole character in too low a key for the public taste, which, we cannot help thinking, the tragic harlequinade of Mr. Kean in the last scene has a little perverted. Mr. Vandenhoff, however, more than regained the ground which he had lost in this character, by his performance of Coriolanus, which was attended with brilliant and merited success. It was, indeed, for the most part, an imitation of Kemble's unforgotten portrait of the lofty patrician; but the imitation of a generous admirer, not of a servile copyist. It had not, therefore, the originality of Macready's delineation of the same character, who put into it more of human warmth, and breathed into it a nobler enthusiasm, and represented the agonizing struggle of its passions, to atone for the

want of that majestic scorn, in which Kemble was without compeer. He has since performed Rolla; and though still imitating Kemble, has approached more nearly to his model.

The pantomime, at this theatre, is considerably better than that at Drurylane, and continues its triumphant and tiresome career. Its chief inerit consists in its scenery. Of this, the most wonderful is a series of panoramic views, which represent a voyage from Holyhead to Dublin, with all its delicious varieties of evening twilight of the moon on the waters the break of day, and gradual approach of the shores to the eye, which at last are seen lit up with all the lustre of morning. It is the most poetical piece of mechanism, we have ever seen. In looking at it, the story of Mahomet respecting the man who lived years in a moment, seemed scarcely a fable. It appeared that we might thus sail the "wide world around" in a waking dream, without sea-sickness or expense, conveyed by the mechanist" to Thebes or Athens, when he will, and where." If the voyage could be varied once a week, we should have no objection to the performance of the pantomime every evening for

ever.

We have uow the pleasing office of recording the production and the success of a genuine tragedy. The announcement of Mr. Barry Cornwall's Mirandola excited an eager expectation, to which the dramatic world has long been a stranger. Be sides the anticipation of peculiar enjoyment from a play written by a genuine poet, curiosity was awakened to discover, whether he, who had produced individual scenes of such exquisite beauty, possessed that constructive power, which is essential to the composition of a noble dramawhether his genius, which had moved so gracefully in its shorter excursions, was equal to a sustained flight-whether he could give the first foreboding indications of destiny, and represent them as gradually expanding over his persons, until the storm burst fatally from their gloom. All anxiety and speculation on this subject are now happily at an end. Mr. Cornwall

has produced a noble piece of high passion-sweetened, yet not broken, by rich fancy-and terminating in an awful catastrophe, ennobled by the imagination's purest, and most elemental majesties.

Yet the story, on which Mirandola is founded, is not, in itself, pleasing. The marriage of a father with the betrothed mistress of his son, and his tragical jealousy of one, whom he had himself so deeply injured, are events which require the utmost delicacy of touch in the writer, who employs them. This Mr. Cornwall has happily exhibited, and shewn also very extraordinary dramatic power in the interest which he has elicited from his theme, without allusion to its inmost horrors. Yet there has been this disadvantage in his choice; that as he has, represented the jealousy as groundless, the passion could not well grow out of actual circumstance, but is necessarily enkindled, and kept alive by the machinations of others. The schemes of these necessary agents are not very ingenious; nor are they themselves redeemed by any touch of nobleness or virtue. But these are comparatively trivial blemishes in a piece so full of true passion, of striking situation, and of exquisite poetry as this. The spirited and diversified scene, in which the Prince is informed of his father's marriage-the mournful interview between the lovers for ever parted the first characteristic meeting of the Duke and his son-the discovery of the ring in the midst of the festival— and the following scene, where Mirandola's heart is gradually softened towards his son by the mere workings of old love-are full of nature and of beauty. This last is one of the finest instances, in which a poet has smitten the rock with a magical power, and drawn thence the living water from its sealed fountains. In the last scene the passion of the Duke becomes truly sublime, as it associates itself with the grandest objects of the universe. The character of Mirandola is the most strongly marked and original in the piece. Rendered impetuous and self-willed by the long enjoyment of power, he yet has an exquisite quickness of sensibility, which per

petually breaks through the incrusta tions formed around his heart by tyranny and by custom, and gives a poignancy to all his joys and sorrows. Macready's delineation of this varied and most difficult character is one of the best triumphs of his genius. Other actors may have equalled him in individual bursts of feeling, or even in depicting the varieties of a single passion-but no one within our recollection has been able, like him, to seize on all those minute traits which circumstances impart to an individual -to form a correct outline, and to fill it up with those diversities, brought into complete harmony-and thus to present us with a picture fitted to remain for ever in our memory's stateliest gallery. Charles Kemble's Guido was one of his noblest and most spirited performances. Abbot played with great energy, which was of high service to the author in one of the few scenes, which were hazardous. And Miss Foote realized all the poet's descriptions of Isidora's beauty, and did justice to all her gentleness and

sorrow.

Miss Stephens has at last returned to the expecting ears and eyes of the public, with whom she is so deservedly a favourite; and has received even more than her accustomed welcome. The operas, in which she has performed, and the new tragedy, have attracted a succession of fuller and more brilliant audiences, than have attended the theatre for the last two

seasons.

THE MINOR THEATRES.

We regret to find that we have left ourselves but little space to notice the truly intellectual performances at the smaller theatres. Our favourite place of amusement, the Surrey, retains its full measure of attraction. Of the three new pieces, which at this time have been produced, Belisarius, a serious melodrame, is the most striking and effective. It tells the old and beautiful story of its hero's fortunes with much power both of condensation and pathos. One of its scenes, where the life of Belisarius is preserved, first by his daughter, and afterwards by a monarch, whom he has himself reduced to wretchedness,

combines more of dramatic with more of moral effect, than almost any scene which we recollect in modern plays. The parts of the father and daughter are admirably performed by Huntley and Miss Taylor, the latter of whom is always peculiarly excellent in the representation of duty. Mr. S. H. Chapman has appeared as Tiberius in this piece, and as a benevolent Jew in a kind of Oriental farce, which is rather heavy, and received considerable and merited applause. If we mistake not, he was the Master Chapman who, in our early play-going days, performed Agib sweetly in Timour the Tartar, and who used to come brightly out of clouds and trees, in the fairy tales, and did his spiriting gently." We are happy to see him likely to fulfil the promise of his childhood. The little piece of Every body's Cousin is a pleasant trifle.

The Olympic Theatre, with the quaint humour of Oxberry-the inimitable ease of Wrench-and, for some time, the hearty humour of Dowton-could scarcely fail of bringing full audiences to its small but brilliant circle. Some of its melodrames, especially one entitled Grey the Collier, have been of the best order of their species. A short piece, entitled Twelve precisely, is very lively and ingenious, and affords excellent scope for the versatile talents of Mrs. W. S. Chatterly, who performs seve ral characters. On the exploits of the Indian Juggler, and of Messrs. Randall and Holt, we must decline giving an opinion, as we have taken no lessons at the Fives Court, and are, as our readers are aware," no conjurers."

The Adelphi is chiefly distinguished by the strength of its operatic company. Mrs. Tenant has a mellow voice and scientific skill, with singularly gentle and unassuming manners, which would entitle her to a respectable station on a more distinguished stage. But Mrs. Waylett's singing and acting form the best charm of the theatre. Her comic genius is more decidedly original than that of any other recent candidate for dramatic fame. She joins something of Mrs. Jordan's heartiness, and abandonment to impulse, with some of

for it raises a greater variety of agreeable impressions, produced by some of the best moral, natural, and artificial mixtures and contrasts. Some of the noblest houses of Paris are here seen among trees, and set off to the very best advantage; for the dark hue and the broken and irregular forms of the trees heighten, more than any thing else, the elegant proportions and repetitions of architectural lines. The unreserved vivacity of the French gentry, seen in a greater movement of body, and heard in higher and more earnest tones than with us, from the social groups of well-dressed ambulators, or from those, who are seated upon chairs, is here too a pleasing variety, with the fixed sedateness of the trees and lofty houses; and even the lamps suspended to some of them from the branches by ropes, add to the air of lightsome and graceful negligence, peculiar to the French. The figures in this view are superior to those in most landscapes, for they are engraved from the drawings of Mr. J. STEPHANOFF, who is distinguished for the natural ease and truth, with which he characterises conversational and common-life expression.

"The Exterior and Interior of the Halle du Blé (Corn Market)," are stately from their size and beauty, from the well-proportioned arched door-ways, square windows, and extensive rotunda, which is only sixteen feet less in diameter, than the celebrated Pantheon at Rome. The single Doric column, which stands in immediate contact with it, is a monument of the public spirit and the love of elegant architecture felt by "BACHAUMONT, the famous collector of anecdotes, who preserved it from destruction, when the Hotel de Soissons was pulled down: he purchased it at his own expense, and made a present of it to the town of Paris."

"Val de Grace."-The noble appearance of this church suffers from the intrusion on the eye of the houses crowding against it. Two pedimented porticos, one upon the other, surmounted by a dome, with a lanternshaped apes, constitute the main features of its front. "The Painting of the dome in fresco, by MIGNARD, is

much admired, and had the honour of being celebrated in a poem by MOLIERE."

"The Gate of St. Denis," with the houses on each side, would form a more pleasing view, were they not so subdivided as to lose what is in some degree essential to all works of art, massing and breadth, and to become almost a thing of shreds and patches as far as relates to the chiaroscuro. The elegance of the parts, and the magnificence of the whole, are, however, more than to be inferred from the print. On each side of the arched doorway is a pyramid with capital bas reliefs, and colossal figures of the defeated nations underneath. On the frieze of its entablature, are the words Ludovico Magno. It is a beautiful specimen of the architecture of the reign of Louis XIV.

Palace of the Luxembourg, This print, by Mr. Pye, gives the lively effect of a summer's afternoon, when the sun sparkles upon the vases, balustrades, statues, &c. and the visitors to the gardens of the Luxembourg, who are in the broad open walks. It is an example of the love of artificial decorations, to which the Parisians are so partial, but which, for British taste, is rather too destructive of seclusion. That taste, it must be admitted, is the most correct, if the principle in gardening be true, that art ought to be subordinate to nature. The wild and desultory forms of nature must indeed be in a considerable degree methodized into shaven lawns, umbrageous arcades, straight and serpentine walks, terraces, jet-d'caus, parterres, &c. and be in parts contrasted and embellished by sculpture. It is only with the excess of these we are at issue.

"The Military School."-There, is an admirable unity of character preserved by the designer and engraver throughout this scene. Did not the title tell the nature of the striking and extensive building represented, the numerous figures, so appropriately introduced, of a military review, and the spectators of it, would designate its use. The masses of cloud, floating in grand confusion, and the wild light gleaming upon them, and on some of