It is clear, that it is quite absurd to attempt altering the manner of spending the Sundays at Paris, while the sentiments of the people, in regard to religion, continue such as at present; but it must be admitted, on the other hand, that their habits, as to the way of spending Sundays, re-act powerfully on their sentiments; and that the minds of the lower orders, in particular, are much debased by the want of what have been emphatically called "these precious breathing times for the labouring part of the community."

Frenchmen of the higher ranks seem, at present, generally disposed to wave the subject of religion; but those of the middling ranks, by whom the business of the country is mainly carried on, do not scruple to express their contempt of it;—they applaud with enthusiasm all irreligious sentiments in the theatres, and seldom mention priests, of any persuasion, without the epithet of sacres.

We were informed in Holland, that the Frenchmen who were sent to that country in official capacities, military or civil, manifested on all occasions the utmost contempt for religion. A French General, quartered in the house of a respectable gentleman in Amsterdam, inquired the reason, the first Sunday that he was there, of the family going out in their best clothes; and being told they were going to church, he expressed his surprise, saying,—"Now that you are a part of the great nation, it is time for you to have done with that nonsense."

To an Englishman, who has been accustomed to see the ordinances of religion regularly observed by the great majority of his countrymen, the neglect of them by the French people appears very singular, and even unnatural. When we afterwards visited Flanders, and observed the manifest respect of the people for religion—when when saw the numberless handsome churches in the villages, and the frequent religious processions in the streets of the towns—when we entered the Great Cathedral at Antwerp, and found vast numbers of people, of both sexes, and all ranks and ages, on their knees, engaged, with the appearance of sincere devotion, in the solemn and striking service of vespers, we could not help saying among ourselves, that this people, for better reasons than mere political convenience, deserved to be separated from the French.

Yet, we do not mean to say that the French are wholly, or even generally devoid of religious feeling; on the contrary, we believe it may often be seen to break out in a very striking manner, even in the conversation of those who are accustomed to think it wise to express contempt for it. A Frenchman, full of enthusiasm about the glory of his country, who was talking to us of the deeds and sufferings of the French army in Russia, concluded his description of the latter with these emphatic words: "Ah! Monsieur, Ce n'est pas les Russes; C'est le bon Dieu qui a fait cela."

* * *

In point of intellectual ability, the French are certainly inferior to no other nation. They have not, perhaps, so frequently as others, that cool, sound judgment in matters of speculation, which can fit them for unravelling with success the perplexities of metaphysics; but their unparalleled success in mathematical pursuits is the best possible proof of the accuracy and quickness of their reasoning powers, when confined within due bounds. We do not refer to the astonishing efforts of such men as d'Alembert or La Place, but to the general diffusion of mathematical knowledge among all who receive a scientific education. It is not, perhaps, going too far to say, that few professors in Britain have an equally accurate and extensive knowledge of the integral and differential calculus, with some lads of 17 or 18, who have completed their education at the Ecole Polytechnique. Unless a man makes discoveries of his own in mathematics, he is little thought of as a mathematician by the men of science at Paris, even although he may be intimately versed in all the branches of that science as it stands.

Under the Imperial Government, it was not considered safe to cultivate any sciences which relate to politics or morals; but the advancement of the physical and mathematical sciences in France during that time, sufficiently indicates that there has been no want of talents or industry.

It may be remarked as a striking characteristic of the French scientific works, that they are almost always well arranged, and the meaning of the author fully and unequivocally expressed. A Frenchman does not always take a comprehensive view of his subject, but he seldom fails to take a clear view of it. The same turn of mind may be observed in the conversation of Frenchmen; even when their information is defective, they will very generally arrest attention by the apparent order and perspicuity of their thoughts; and they never seem to know what it is to be at a loss for words.

Considering the great ingenuity and ability of the French, it seems not a little surprising that they should be so much behind our countrymen in useful and profitable arts, and that Englishmen should be so much struck with the apparent poverty of the greater part of France. This is in a great measure owing, no doubt, to the policy of the late French Government, which has directed all the energies of the nation towards military affairs; and to the abuses of the former government: but we think it must be ascribed in part to the character of the people. There is not the same co-operation of different individuals to one end, of private advantage and public usefulness; the same division of labour, intellectual as well as operative; the same hearty confidence between man and man, in France as in England. Men of talents in France are, in general, too much tainted with the national vanity, and too much occupied with their own fame, to join heartily in promoting the public interest. Individual intelligence, activity, and ingenuity, go but little way in making a nation wealthy and prosperous, if they are made to minister only to the individual pleasures and glory of their possessors.

* * *

The patriotism of the French is certainly a very strong feeling, but it appears to be much tainted with the same vanity and love of shew that we have just remarked. There can be no doubt, that during the time of Bonaparte's successes, he commanded, in a degree that no other Sovereign ever did, the admiration and respect of the great body of the people; and it is equally certain, that he did this without interesting himself at all in their happiness. His hold of them was by their national vanity alone. They assent to all that can be said of the miseries which he brought upon France; but add, "Mais il a battu tout le monde; il a fait des choses superbes a Paris; il a flatte notre orgeuil national. Ah! C'est un grand homme. Notre pays n'a jamais ete si grand ni si puissant que sous lui." The condition of the inhabitants of distant provinces was nowise improved by his public buildings and decorations at their capital; but every Frenchman considers a compliment to Paris, to the Louvre, to the Palais Royal, or the Opera, as a personal compliment to himself.

At this moment, it is certainly a very general wish in France, to have a sovereign, who, as they express it, has grown out of the revolution; but when we enquire into their reason for this, it will often be found, we believe, to resolve itself into their national vanity. It is not that they think the Bourbons will break their word, or that the present Constitution will be altered without their consent; but after five and twenty years of confusion and bloodshed, they cannot bear the thoughts of leaving off where they began; and they think, that taking back their old dynasty without alteration, is practically acknowledging that they have been in the wrong all the time of their absence. We have often remarked (but we presume the remark is applicable to all despotic countries) that the French political conversation, such as is heard at caffes and tables d'hote, relates more to men, and less to measures, and appears to be more guided by personal attachments or antipathies, than that to which we are accustomed in England.

The character that appears to be most wanted in France, is that of disinterested public-spirited individuals, of high honour and integrity, and of large possessions and influence, who do not interfere in public affairs from views of ambition, but from a sense of duty—who have no wish to dazzle the eyes of the multitude, and do not seek for a more extensive influence than that to which their observation and experience entitle them. While this character continues so much more frequent in our own country than among the French, it is perhaps in military affairs only that we need entertain any fear of their superiority. Englishmen of power and influence, generally speaking, have really at heart the good of their country, whereas Frenchmen, in similar situations, are chiefly interested in the glory of theirs.

It must also be observed, that public affairs occupy much less of the attention, and interfere much less with the happiness, of the majority of the French than of the English. There is less anxiety about public measures, and less gratitude for public services. We were often surprised at the indifference of the citizens of Paris with regard to their Marshals, whom they seldom knew by name, and did not seem to care for knowing. The peroration of an old lady, who had delivered a long speech to a friend of ours, then a prisoner at Verdun, lamenting the reverses of the French arms, and the miseries of France, was characteristic of the nation: "Mais, ce m'est egal. Je suis toujours ici."

It is quite unnecessary for us to give proofs of the laxity of moral principle which prevails so generally among the French. The world has not now to learn, that notwithstanding their high professions, they have but little regard either for truth or morality. According to Mr Scott, "they have, in a great measure, detached words from ideas and feelings; they can, therefore, afford to be unusually profuse of the better sort of the first; and they experience as much internal satisfaction and pride when they profess a virtue, as if they had practised one." Perhaps it would be more correct to say, that they have detached ideas and feelings from their corresponding actions. Their feelings have always been too violent for the moment, and too short in their duration, to influence their conduct steadily and permanently; but at present, they seem much disposed to think, that it is quite enough to have the feelings, and that there is no occasion for their conduct being influenced by them at all.

They appear to have a strong natural sense of the beauty and excellence of virtue; but they are accustomed to regard it merely as a sense. It does not regulate their conduct to others, but adds to their own selfish enjoyments. They speak of virtue almost uniformly, not as an object of rational approbation and imitation, and still less as a rule of moral obligation, but as a matter of feeling and taste. A French officer, who describes to you, in the liveliest manner, and with all the appearance of unfeigned sympathy, the miseries and devastations occasioned by his countrymen among the unoffending inhabitants of foreign states, proceeds, in the same breath, to declaim with enthusiastic admiration on the untarnished honour of the French arms, and the great mind of the Emperor. A Parisian tradesman, who goes to the theatre that he may see the representation of integrity of conduct, conjugal affection, and domestic happiness, and applauds with enthusiasm when he sees it, shews no symptoms of shame when detected in a barefaced attempt to cheat his customers; spends his spare money in the Palais Royal, and sells his wife or daughter to the highest bidder.

"Among the French," says the intelligent and judicious author of the Caractere des Armees Europeennes, "the seat of the passions is in the head—they feel rather from the fancy than the heart—their feelings are nothing more than thoughts."

Another striking feature of the French character, connected with the preceding, is the openness, and even eagerness, with which they communicate all their thoughts and feelings to each other, and even to strangers. All Frenchmen seem anxious to make the most in conversation, not only of whatever intellectual ability they possess, but of whatever moral feelings they experience on any occasion;—they do not seem to understand why a man should ever be either ashamed or unwilling to disclose any thing that passes in his mind;—they often suspect their neighbours of expressing sentiments which they do not feel, but have no idea of giving them credit for feelings which they do not express.

The French have many good qualities; they are very generally obliging to strangers, they are sober and good-tempered, and little disposed, in the ordinary concerns of life, to quarrel among themselves, and they have an amiable cheerfulness of disposition, which supports them in difficulties and adversity, better than the resolutions of philosophy. But it is clear that they have very little esteem for the most estimable of all characters, that of firm and enduring virtue; and in fact, it is not going too far to say, that a certain propriety of external demeanour has completely taken the place of correctness of moral conduct among them. They speak almost uniformly with much abhorrence of drunkenness, and of all violations of the established forms of society; and such improprieties are very seldom to be seen among them. Many Frenchmen, as was already observed, are rough and even ferocious in their manners; and the language and behaviour of most of them, particularly in the presence of women, appears to us very frequently indelicate and rude; yet there are limits to this freedom of manner which they never allow themselves to pass. Go where you will in Paris, you will very seldom see any disgusting instances of intoxication, or any material difference of manner, between those who are avowedly unprincipled and abandoned, and the most respectable part of the community. In the caffes, which correspond not only to the coffee-houses, but to the taverns of London, you will see modest women, at all hours of the day, often alone, sitting in the midst of the men. In the Palais Royal, at no hour of the night do you witness scenes of gross indecency or riot.

To an Englishman, it often serves as an excuse for vicious indulgences, that he is led off his feet by temptation. To a Frenchman, this excuse is the only crime; he stands in no need of an apology for vice; but it is necessary "qu'il se menage:" he is taught "qu'un peche cache est la moitie pardonne;" he must on no account allow, that any temptation can make him lose his recollection or presence of mind.

We ought perhaps to admit likewise, that some of the vices common among the French are not merely less foul and disgusting in appearance, but less odious in their own nature, than those of our countrymen. We do not say this in palliation of their conduct. It is rather to be considered as a benevolent provision of nature, that in proportion as vice is more generally diffused, its influence on individual character is less fatal. This remark applies particularly to the case of women. A woman in England, who loses one virtue, knows that she outrages the opinion of mankind; she disobeys the precepts of her religion, and estranges herself from the examples which she has been taught to revere; she becomes an outcast of society; and if she has not already lost, must soon lose all the best qualities of the female character. But a French woman, in giving way to unlawful love, knows that she does no more than her mother did before her; if she is of the lower ranks, she is not necessarily debarred from honest occupation; if of the higher, she loses little or nothing in the estimation of society; if she has been taught to revere any religion, it is the Catholic, and she may look to absolution. Her conduct, therefore, neither implies her having lost, nor necessarily occasions her losing, any virtue but one; and during the course of the revolution, we have understood there have been many examples, proving, in the most trying circumstances, that not even the worst corruptions of Paris had destroyed some of the finest virtues which can adorn the sex. "Elles ont toujours des bons coeurs," is a common expression in France, in speaking even of the lowest and most degraded of the sex. In Paris, it is certainly much more difficult than in London to find examples in any rank of the unsullied purity of the female character; but neither is it commonly seen so utterly perverted and degraded; one has not occasion to witness so frequently the painful spectacle of youth and beauty brought by one rash step to shame and misery; and to lament, that the fairest gifts of heaven should become the bitterest of curses to so many of their possessors.

* * *

Having mentioned the French women, we think we may remark, without hazarding our character as impartial observers, that most of the faults which are so well known to prevail among them, may be easily traced to the manner in which they are treated by the other sex. It is a very common boast in France, that there is no other country in which women are treated with so much respect; and you can hardly gratify any Frenchman so much, as by calling France "le paradis des femmes." Yet, from all that we could observe ourselves, or learn from others, there appears to be no one of the boasts of Frenchmen which is in reality less reasonable. They exclude women from society almost entirely in their early years; they seldom allow them any vote in the choice of their husbands: After they have brought them into society, they seem to think that they confer a high favour on them, by giving them a great deal of their company, and paying them a great deal of attention, and encouraging them to separate themselves from the society of their husbands. In return for these obligations, they often oblige them to listen to conversation, which, heard as it is, from those for whom they have most respect, cannot fail to corrupt their minds as well as their manners; and they take care to let them see that they value them for the qualities which render them agreeable companions for the moment; not for the usefulness of their lives, for the purity of their conduct, or the constancy of their affections. Surely the respect with which all women who conduct themselves with propriety are treated in England, merely on account of their sex; the delicacy and reserve with which in their presence conversation is uniformly conducted by all who call themselves gentlemen, are more honourable tokens of regard for the virtues of the female character, than the unmeaning ceremonies and officious attentions of the French.

The female inhabitants of our own country are distinguished of those of France, and probably of every other country, by a certain native, self-respecting, dignity of appearance and manner, which claims respect and attention as a right, rather than solicits them as a boon; and gives you to understand, that the man who does not give them is disgraced, rather than the woman who does not receive them. We believe it to be owing to the influence of the causes we have noticed, that this manner, so often ridiculed by the French, under the name of "hauteur" and "fierte Anglaise," is hardly ever to be seen among women of any rank in France. And to a similar influence of the tastes and sentiments of our own sex, it is easy to refer the more serious faults of the female character in that country.

On the other hand, the better parts of the character of the French women are all their own. It is not certainly from the men that they have learnt those truly feminine qualities, that interesting humility and gentleness of manner, that pleasing gaiety of temper, and native kindness of disposition, to which it is very difficult, even for the proverbial coldness of northern critics, to apply terms of ridicule or reproach.

* * *

It is not easy for a stranger, in forming his opinion of the moral character of a people, to make allowance for the modification which moral sentiments undergo, in consequence of long habits, and adventitious circumstances. There is no quality which strikes a stranger more forcibly, in the character of the French of the middling and lower ranks, than their seeming dishonesty, particularly their uniformly endeavouring to extract more money for their goods or their services than they know to be their value. But we think too much stress has been laid on this part of their character by some travellers. It is regarded in France as a sort of professional accomplishment, without which it is in vain to attempt exercising a trade; and it is hardly thought to indicate immorality of any kind, more than the obviously false expressions which are used in the ordinary intercourse of society in England, or the license of denying oneself to visitors. That it should be so regarded is no doubt a proof of national inferiority, and perhaps immorality; but while the general sentiments of the nation continue as at present, an instance of this kind cannot be considered as a proof of individual baseness. An Englishman is apt to pronounce every man a scoundrel, who, in making a bargain, attempts to take him in; but he will often find, on a closer and more impartial examination, that the judgment formed by this circumstance alone in France, is quite erroneous. One of our party entered a small shop in the Palais Royal to buy a travelling cap. The woman who attended in it, with perfect effrontery, asked 16 francs for one which was certainly not worth more than six, and which she at last gave him for seven. Being in a hurry at the time, he inadvertently left on the counter a purse containing 20 gold pieces of 20 francs each. He did not miss it for more than an hour: on returning to the shop, he found the old lady gone, and concluded at first, that she had absented herself to avoid interrogation; but to his surprise, he was accosted immediately on entering, by a pretty young girl, who had come in her place, with the sweetest smile imaginable,—"Monsieur, a oublie sa bourse—que nous sommes heureuses de la lui rendre."

* * *

It is certainly incorrect to say, that the taste of the French is decidedly superior to that of other nations. Their poetry, on the whole, will not bear a comparison with the English; their modern music is not nearly so beautiful as their ancient songs, which have now descended to the lower ranks; their painting is in a peculiar and not pleasing style; their taste in gardening is antiquated and artificial; their architecture is only fine where it is modelled on the ancient; their theatrical tastes, if they are more correct than ours, are also more limited. We have already taken occasion more than once to reprobate the general taste of the French, as being partial to art, and brilliant execution, rather than to simplicity and beautiful design.

But what distinguishes the French from almost every other nation, is the general diffusion of the taste for the fine arts, and for elegant amusements, among all ranks of the people. Almost all Frenchmen take not only a pride, but an interest, in the public buildings of Paris, and in the collections of paintings and statues. There is a very general liking for poetry and works of imagination among the middling and lower ranks; they go to the theatres, not merely for relaxation and amusement, but with a serious intention of cultivating their taste, and displaying their critical powers. Many of them are so much in the habit of attending the theatres when favourite plays are acted, that they know almost every word of the principal scenes by heart. All their favourite amusements are in some measure of a refined kind. It is not in drinking clubs, or in sensual gratifications alone, that men of these ranks seek for relaxation, as its too often the case with us; but it is in the society of women, in conversation, in music and dancing, in theatres and operas, and caffes and promenades, in seeing and being seen; in short, in scenes resembling, as nearly as possible, those in which the higher ranks of all nations spend their leisure hours.

While the useful arts are comparatively little advanced, those which relate to ornaments alone are very generally superior to ours; and the persons who profess these arts speak of them with a degree of fervour that often seems ludicrous. "Monsieur," says a peruquier in the Palais Royal, with the look of a man who lets you into a profound secret in science, "Notre art est un art imitatif; en effet, c'est un des beaux arts;" then taking up a London-made wig, and twirling it round on his finger, with a look of ineffable contempt, "Celui ci n'est pas la belle nature; mais voici la mienne,—c'est la nature personifiee!"

One of the best proofs of the tastes of the lower ranks being, at least in part, cultivated and refined, is to be found in the songs which are common among the peasantry and soldiers. There are a great number of these, and some of them, in point of beauty of sentiment, and elegance of expression, might challenge a comparison even with the admired productions of our own land of song. The following is part of a song which was written in April 1814, and set to the beautiful air of Charles VII. It was popular among the description of persons to whom it relates; and the young man from whom we got it had himself returned home, after serving as a private in the young guard.

LE RETOUR DE L'AMANT FRANCAIS.

De bon coeur je pose les armes; Adieu le tumulte des camps, L'amitie m'offre d'autres charmes, Au sein de mes joyeux parents; Le Dieu des Amants me rapelle, C'est pour m'enroler a son tour; Et je vais aupres de ma belle, Servir sous les lois de l'amour.

Aux noms d'honneur et de patrie, On m'a vu braver le trepas; Aujourd'hui pour charmer ma vie La paix fait cesser les combats. Le Dieu des Amants, &c.

After all that we had heard, and all that is known over the whole world, of the unbridled licentiousness and savage ferocity of the French soldiers, we were not a little surprised to find, that this and other songs written in good taste, and expressing sentiments of a kind of chivalrous elevation and refinement, were popular in their ranks.

* * *

The last peculiarity in the French character which we shall notice, is perhaps the most fundamental of the whole; it is their love of mixed society; of the society of those for whom they have no regard, but whom they meet on the footing of common acquaintances. This is the favourite enjoyment of almost every Frenchman; to shine in such society, is the main object of his ambition; his whole life is regulated so as to gratify this desire. He is indifferent about comforts at home—he dislikes domestic society—he hates the retirement of the country; but he loves, and is taught to love, to figure in a large circle of acquaintance, for whom he has not the least heartfelt friendship, with whom he is on no more intimate terms than with perfect strangers, after the first half hour. If he has acquired a reputation in science, arts, or arms, so much the better; his glory will be of much service to him; if not, he must make it up by his conversation.

In consequence of the predilection of the French for social intercourse of this kind, it is, that knowledge of such kinds, and to such an extent, as can be easily introduced into conversation, is very general; that the opportunities of such intercourse are carefully multiplied; that all arts which can add to the attractions of such scenes are assiduously improved; that liveliness of disposition is prized beyond all other qualities, while those eccentricities of manner, which seem to form a component part of what we call humorous characters, are excluded; that even childish amusements are preferred to solitary occupations; that taste is cultivated more than morality, wit esteemed more than wisdom, and vanity encouraged more than merit.

It is easy to trace the pernicious effects of a taste for society of this kind, on individual character, when it is encouraged to such a degree as to become a serious occupation, instead of a relaxation to the mind. When the main object of a man's life is distinction among his acquaintances, from his wit—his liveliness—his elegance of taste—his powers of conversation—or even from the fame he may have earned by his talents; he becomes careless about the love of those with whom he is on more intimate terms, and who do not value him exclusively, or even chiefly, for such qualities. His domestic affections are weakened; he lives for himself and enjoys the present moment without either reflection or foresight; with the outward appearance of an open friendly disposition, he becomes, in reality, selfish and interested; that he may secure general sympathy from indifferent spectators, he is under the necessity of repressing all strong emotions, and expressions of ardent feeling, and of confining himself to a worldly and common-place morality; he learns to value his moral feelings, as well as his intellectual powers, chiefly for the sake of the display which he can make of them in society; and to reprobate vice, rather on account of its outward deformity, than of its intrinsic guilt; gradually he becomes impatient of restraints on the pleasure which he derives from social intercourse; and the religious and moral principles of his nature are sacrificed to the visionary idol to which his love of pleasure and his love of glory have devoted him.

Such appears to be the state of the minds of most Parisians. They have been so much accustomed to pride themselves on the outward appearance of their actions, that they have become regardless of their intrinsic merits; they have lived so long for effect, that they have forgotten that there is any other principle by which their lives can be regulated.

Of the devotion of the French to the sort of life to which we refer, the best possible proof is, their fondness for a town life; the small number of chateaux in the country that are inhabited—and the still more remarkable scarcity of villas in the neighbourhood of Paris, to which men of business may retire. There are a few houses of this description about Belleville and near Malmaison; but in general, you pass from the noisy and dirty Fauxbourgs at once into the solitude of the country; and it is quite obvious, that you have left behind you all the scenes in which the Parisians find enjoyment. The contrast in the neighbourhood of London, is most striking. It is easy to laugh at the dulness and vulgarity of a London citizen, who divides his time between his counting-house and his villa, or at the coarseness and rusticity of an English country squire; but there is no description of men to whom the national character of our country is more deeply indebted.

It seems no difficult matter to ascribe most of the differences which we observe between the English and French character to the differences in the habits of the people, occasioned by form of government and various assignable causes: and the French character, in particular, has very much the appearance of being moulded by the artificial form of society which prevails among the people. Yet, it is not easy to reconcile such explanations with the instances we can often observe, of difference of national character manifested under circumstances, or at an age, when the causes assigned can hardly have operated. The peculiarities which appear to us most artificial in the Parisian character and manners, may often be seen in full perfection in very young children. Every little French girl, almost from the time when she begins to speak, seems to place her chief delight in attracting the regard of the other sex, rather than in playing with her female companions. "In England," says Chateaubriand, "girls are sent to school in their earliest years: you sometimes see groups of these little ones, dressed in white mantles, with straw hats tied under the chin with a ribband, and a basket on the arm, containing fruit and a book—all with downcast eyes, blushing when looked at. When I have seen," he continues, "our French female children, dressed in their antiquated fashion, lifting up the trains of their gowns, looking at every one they meet with effrontery, singing love-sick airs, and taking lessons in declamation; I have thought with regret, of the simplicity and modesty of the little English girls."

It is the opinion of some naturalists, that the acquired habits, as well as the natural instincts of animals, are transmitted to their progeny; and in comparing the causes commonly assigned, and plausibly supported, for the peculiarities of national character, with the very early age at which these peculiarities shew themselves, one is almost tempted to believe, that something of the same kind may take place in the human species.

* * *

In what has now been said, no reference has been made to the influence of the revolution on the parts of the French character on which we have touched. On this point we have of course, the means of judging with precision; but most of the peculiarities which appeared to us most striking certainly existed before the revolution, and we should be disposed to doubt whether the leading features are materially altered. The influence of the writings of the French philosophers on the religious and moral principles of their countrymen, has certainly been very great, and has been probably strengthened, rather than weakened, by the events of the last twenty-five years.

The general diffusion of a military spirit; the unprincipled manner in which war has been conducted, and the encouragement which has been given to martial qualities, to the exclusion of all pacific virtues, have promoted the growth of the French military vices, particularly selfishness and licentiousness, among all ranks and descriptions of the people, and materially injured their general character, even in the remotest parts of the country. During the revolution, and under the Imperial Government, men have owed their success, in France, almost exclusively to the influence of their intellectual abilities, without any assistance from their moral character; in consequence, the contempt for religion is more generally diffused, and more openly expressed than it was; and although loud protestations of inviolable honour are still necessary, integrity of conduct is much less respected. The abolition of the old, and the formation of a new nobility, composed chiefly of men who had risen from inferior military situations, has had a most pernicious effect on the general manners of the nation. The chief or sole use of a hereditary nobility in a free country, is to keep up a standard of dignity and elegance of manner, which serves as a model of imitation much more extensively than the middling and lower ranks are often willing to allow, and has a more beneficial effect on the national character, than it is easy to explain on mere speculative principles. But the manners of the new French nobility being the very reverse of dignified or elegant, their constitution has hitherto tended only to confirm the changes in the general manners of a great proportion of the French nation, which the revolutionary ideas had effected. There are very few men to be seen now in France, who (making all allowances for difference of previous habits) appear to Englishmen to possess either the manners or feelings of gentlemen.

The best possible proof that this is not a mere national prejudice, in so far as the army is concerned, is, that the French ladies are very generally of the same way of thinking. After the English officers left Toulouse in the summer of 1814, the ladies of that town found the manners of the French officers who succeeded them so much less agreeable, that they could not be prevailed on, for a long time, to admit them into their society. This is a triumph over the arms of France, which we apprehend our countrymen would have found it much more difficult to achieve in the days of the ancient monarchy.

On the other hand, it must be admitted, that the revolution, has had the effect of completely removing from the French character that silly veneration for high rank, unaccompanied by any commanding qualities of mind, which used to form a predominant feature in it. Yet it seems doubtful whether the equivalent they have obtained is more likely to promote their happiness. They have now an equally infatuated admiration for ability and success, without integrity or virtue. Their minds have been delivered from the dominion of rank without talents, and have fallen under that of talents without principle.



CHAPTER VII.

PARIS—THE THEATRES.

It is difficult for any person who has never quitted England to enter into the feelings which every one must experience when he first finds it in his power to examine those peculiarities of national manners, or national taste, in the people of other states, which have long been the subject of speculation in his own country, and on his imperfect knowledge of which, much perhaps of the estimate he has formed of the character of those nations may depend. The circumstance which perhaps, of all others connected with the people of France, is most likely to create this feeling of curiosity and interest, is the opportunity of attending the French theatres. In most countries, and even in some where dramatic representations possess much greater power over the minds of the audience, the theatre is comparatively of much less importance to a stranger in assisting him to judge of the character of the people; the observations which he may collect can seldom be of any great use in affording him means of understanding their manners and public character, and at the most, cannot inform him of those circumstances in the character of the people with which their happiness and prosperity are connected;—but the theatre at Paris is an object of the greatest interest to a stranger; every one knows how strikingly the character and dispositions of the French people are displayed at their theatres; and at the period when we were there, as every speech almost contained something which was eagerly turned into an allusion to the circumstances of their situation, and to the events which had so lately taken place, the interest which the theatres must at any time have excited, was greatly increased.

There was another object also, less temporary in its nature, which rendered frequent attendance at the theatre, one of the most useful and instructive occupations of our time. The construction and character of the French tragedies have been as generally questioned in other countries, as they are universally and enthusiastically admired in France; and with whatever feelings, whether of pleasure or fatigue, we might have read these celebrated compositions, we were all naturally most anxious to ascertain how far they were calculated for actual representation, and what effect these plays, which possess such influence over the French people, might produce on those who had been accustomed to dramatic writings of so very different a description.

The theatres present, at first view, a very favourable aspect of French character. The audience uniformly conduct themselves with propriety and decorum; they are always attentive to the piece represented, and shew themselves, in general very good judges of theatrical merit; and the entertainments which please their taste are certainly of a superior order to a great part of those which are popular in England. A great number of the performances which are loudly applauded by the pit and boxes of the London theatres, would be esteemed low and vulgar, even by the galleries at the Theatre Francais. It must be added, likewise, that the morality of the plays which are in request, is very generally more strict than of favourite English plays; and often of a refined and sentimental turn, which would be little relished in England. The tragedies acted at the Theatre Francais are generally modelled on the Greek; those of Racine and Voltaire are common. The comedies have seldom any low life or buffoonery, or vulgar ribaldry in them; The after pieces, and the ballets at the Academie de Musique, and at the Opera Comique, are often beautiful representations of rural innocence and enjoyments.

It appears at first difficult to reconcile this taste in theatrical entertainments with the well-known immorality of the Parisians; but the fact is, that as they are in the daily habit of speaking of virtues which they do not practise, so it never appears to enter their heads; that the sentiments which they delight in hearing at the theatres ought to regulate their conduct to one another. They applaud them only for their adaptation to the situation of the fictitious personages; whereas in England they are applauded, for speaking home to the business and bosoms of the audience.

The conduct and style of the French tragedies, in particular, appear to be very characteristic of a nation among whom noble and virtuous feelings are no sooner experienced than they are proclaimed to the world; and are there valued, rather for the selfish pleasure they produce, in the mind, than for their influence on conduct. The French will not admit, in their tragedies, the representation of all the variety of character and situation that can throw an air of truth and reality over dramatic fiction; they can admire such incidents and characters only, as accord with the sentiments and emotions which it is the peculiar province of tragedy to excite. They are not satisfied with the indication, in a few energetic words,—valuable only as an index to the state of the mind, and an earnest of the actions of the speaker,—of feelings too strong to find vent at the moment, in words capable of fully expressing them; they must have the full developement, the long detailed exposition of all the thoughts which crowd into the mind of the actor or sufferer, expanded, as it were, to prolong the enjoyment of those who are to sympathise with them, and expressed in select and appropriate terms, with the pomp and stateliness of heroic verse. An English tragedy is valued as a representation of life and character; a French tragedy as a display of eloquence and feeling: and the reason is, that in France eloquence and feeling are valued for their own sake, and in England they are valued for the sake of the corresponding character and conduct.

It is perhaps one of the strongest arguments in favour of the general plan of the English drama, and one of the best proofs that dramatic poetry ought to be judged by very different principles from those by which other kinds of poetry are criticised, that one of the principal merits of the French actors consists in hiding the chief peculiarities of their own dramatic school. The personages in a French tragedy are represented by the authors as it were a degree above human nature; but the actors study to present themselves before the audience as simple men and women: the speeches are generally such as appear to be delivered by persons who are superior to the overwhelming influence of strong passions, and who can calmly enter into an analysis of their own feelings; but the actors labour to give you the impression, that they are agitated by present, violent, and sudden emotions; the tragedies are composed with as much regularity as epic poems in heroic verse, but the best actors do all in their power, by varied intonation, by irregular pauses, and frequent bursts of passion, to conceal the rhymes, and break the uniformity of the measure.

The effect of the rhymes and regular versification, in the mouths of the inferior actors, who have not the art to conceal them, is, to an English ear at least, very unpleasing, and indeed almost destructive of theatrical illusion; and as a number of such actors must necessarily appear in every tragedy, it may be doubted whether a tragedy is ever acted throughout on the French stage in so pleasing a manner, at least to an English taste, as some of our English tragedies are at present in the London theatres—as Venice preserved, for example, is now acted at Covent Garden. If such be our superiority, however, it must be ascribed, not to the tragic genius of the people being greater, but to there being fewer difficulties to be overcome on the English stage than on the French.

We think it is pretty clear, likewise, that the style of the best English tragedies affords a better field for the display of genius in the actors, than that of the French. Where the sentiments of the characters introduced are fully expressed in their words—where their whole thoughts are detailed for the edification of the audience, however grand or touching these may be, it is obvious, that the actor who is to represent them is in trammels; the poet has done so much, that little remains for him; his art is confined to the display of emotions or passions, all the variations of which are set down for him, and which he is not permitted to alter. But when the expression of intense feeling is confined to few words, to broken sentences, and sudden transitions of thought, which let you, indeed, into the inmost recesses of the soul of the sufferer, but do not lay it open before you, it is permitted for the genius of the actor to co-operate with that of the poet in producing an effect, for which neither was singly competent. Those who have witnessed the representation of the heart-rendings of jealousy in Kean's Othello, or of the agonies of "love and sorrow joined" in Miss O'Neil's Belvidera, will, we are persuaded, acknowledge the truth of this observation.

The ideas which we had formed of the French stage, from reading their tragedies, had prepared us to expect, in their principal actor, a figure, countenance, and manner, resembling those of Kemble, fitted to give full effect to the declamations in which they abound, and to the representation of characters of heroic virtue, elevated above the influence of earthly passions. The appearance of Talma is very different from this, and certainly has by no means the uniform dignity and majestic elevation of Kemble.

Difficult as it must always be to convey, by any general description, a distinct or adequate notion of the excellence of any actor, there are some circumstances which it is common to mention, and some expressions which must be understood wherever the theatre is an object of interest, and the power of acting appreciated. Talma appears to us to unite more of the advantages of figure, and countenance, and voice, than any actor that we have ever seen: it is not that his person is large and graceful, or even well proportioned; on the contrary, he is rather a short man, and is certainly not without defects in the shape of his limbs. But these disadvantages are wholly overlooked in admiration of his dignified and imposing carriage—of his majestic head—and of his full and finely-proportioned chest, which expresses so nobly the resolution, and manliness, and independence of the human character.

There is one circumstance in which Talma has every perfection which it is possible to conceive—in the power, and richness, and beauty of his voice. It is one of those commanding and pathetic voices which can never, at any distance of time, be forgotten by any one who has once heard it: every variety of tone and expression of which the human voice is capable, is perfectly at his command, and succeed each other with a rapidity and power which it is not possible to conceive. It makes its way to the heart the instant it is heard, and at the moment he begins to speak, you feel not only your attention fixed, and your admiration excited, but the mind wholly subdued by its resistless influence, and disposed to enter at once into every emotion which he may wish to produce. The beauty and feeling of his under tones, the affection, tenderness, and pity which they so exquisitely express, are so perfect, that no one could foresee in such perfections, the fierce, hurried, and overhearing tones of Nero—the voice of deep and exhausting suffering, which in Hamlet shews so profound an impression of the misery he had undergone, and of the hopelessness of the situation in which he is placed,—or still more the shriek of agony in Orestes, when he finds the horrors of madness again assailing him, and when, in that utter prostration of soul which the belief of inevitable and merciless destiny alone could produce in his mind, he abandons himself in dark despair to the misery which seems to close around him for ever.

We have heard several English people describe Talma's countenance, as by no means powerful enough for a great actor; it appeared to us, that in no one respect was he so decidedly superior to any actor on the English stage, as in the truth and variety of expression which it displays. There is one observation indeed regarding the acting of Talma, which often suggested itself, and which may, in some degree, prepare us to expect, that English people in general could not be much struck with the expression of his countenance. On the English stage, it appears commonly to be the object of the actors, to give to every sentiment the whole effect of which the words of the part will admit, as fully as if that sentiment were the only one which could occupy the mind of the character at the time; and any person who will attend to the manner in which Macbeth and Hamlet are performed, even by that great actor whose genius has secured at once the pre-eminence which the reputation of Garrick had left so long uncontested, may observe, that many of the parts, which are applauded as the strongest proofs of the abilities of the actor, consist in the expression given to sentiments, undoubtedly of subordinate importance in the situation of these characters, and which probably could never occupy so exclusively the mind of any one really placed in the circumstances represented in the play, and under the influence of the feelings which such circumstances are calculated to produce. In the character of Hamlet, in particular, there are several passages, in which it is the custom to express minor and passing sentiments with a keenness little suitable to the profound grief in which Hamlet ought to be absorbed at the commencement of the play, and which can be natural only when the mind is free from other more powerful emotions. It appears to us, that the consistency of character is much more judiciously and naturally preserved in the acting of Talma; that he is more careful to maintain invariably that unity of expression which ought to be given to the character, and is more uniformly under the influence of those predominating feelings, which the circumstances of the situation in which the part has placed him seem fitted to excite. Under this impression apparently of the object which an actor ought to keep in view, Talma omits many opportunities, which would be eagerly employed on the English stage, to display the power of the actor, though the natural consistency of character might be violated; and never seems to think it proper to express, on all occasions, every sentiment with that effect which should be given to it, only when it becomes the predominant feeling of the moment. Much, no doubt, is lost for stage effect by this notion of acting. Many opportunities are passed over, which might have been employed to shew the manner in which the actor can represent a variety of feelings, which the language of the play may seem to admit; and we lose much of the art and skill of acting, when the talents of the actor are limited to the display of such sentiments only as accord with the simple and decided expression of character which he is anxious to maintain.

But on the other hand, the impression which this representation of character makes upon the mind, is on the whole much more profound, and the interest which the spectator takes in the circumstances in which the character is placed, is much greater when the actor is so wholly under the influence of the feelings which the situation of the part ought to excite, as never to betray any emotion which can weaken that general effect which this situation would naturally produce. To those, therefore, accustomed to the greater variety of expression which the practice of the English stage renders necessary in the countenance of every actor, and to the strong and often exaggerated manner in which common sentiments and ordinary feelings are represented, there may perhaps appear some want of expression in Talma's countenance; but no one can attend fully to any of the more interesting characters which he performs, without feeling an impression produced by the power and intelligence of his countenance, which no length of time will ever wholly efface. It is not the expression of his countenance at any particular moment which fixes itself on the mind, or the force with which accidental feelings are represented; but that permanent and powerful expression which suits the character he has to sustain, and never for an instant permits you to forget the circumstances, of whatever kind, in which he is placed; and those who have seen him in any of the greater parts on the French stage, can never forget that unrivalled power of expressing deep grief, of which nothing in any English actor at present on the stage can afford any idea.

At the same time it must be admitted, that Talma has arrived at that time of life, when the hand of age has impaired, in some degree, the vigour and expression of the human frame, and when his countenance has lost much of that variety and play of expression which belongs to the period of youth alone; it has lost much of the warmth and keenness of youthful feeling, and probably might fail in expressing that openness, and gaiety, and enthusiasm, which time has so great a tendency to diminish. But these qualities are not often required in the parts which Talma has to perform in the French plays; and if his countenance has lost some of the perfections of earlier years, it has, on the other hand, gained much from the seriousness and dignity of age. If, for instance, he does not express so well the ardour—the hope—the triumph of youthful love, there is yet something irresistibly affecting in the earnestness with which he expresses that passion; something which adds most deeply to the interest which its expression is calculated to excite, by reminding one of the instability of human enjoyment, and of the many misfortunes which the course of life may bring with it to destroy the visions of inexperienced affection. We have already mentioned, that in the expression of profound emotion and deep suffering, the countenance of Talma is altogether admirable; and we doubt whether there is any thing is this respect more true and perfect, even in the performance of that great actress who has, in the present day, united every perfection of grace, and beauty, and genuine feeling which the stage has ever exhibited. But the countenance of Talma, in scenes of distress, expresses not merely suffering, but if possible, something more, which we have never seen in any other actor. He alone possesses the power of expressing that impatience under suffering—that restless, constant wish for relief, which produces so strong an impression of the truth and reality of the affliction with which you are called upon to sympathise.

His attitudes and action are uncommonly striking, seldom in the exaggeration of the French stage, and never running into that immoderate expression of passion in which dignity of character is necessarily sacrificed. Talma appears to understand the use and management of action better than any actor on the French stage; and though at times some prominent faults, inseparable, perhaps, from the character of the plays in which he is compelled to perform, may be observable; yet, in general, his action appears to possess a power and expression beyond what is attempted by any actor on the English stage.

Nothing can be conceived apparently so inconsistent with the character of the French plays, as the manner in which they are delivered. The harangues, which are tedious to many when read, might probably be very uninteresting to all when performed, if delivered with that unbending and unimpassioned declamation, which seems to suit "their stately march and long resounding lines:" to a French audience, in particular, such representations would be intolerable, and the actors, accordingly, have been led to perform them with a degree of energy and passion which they do not appear intended to admit, but which was necessary, perhaps, to awaken those emotions which it must be more or less the object of theatrical representations to excite, wherever they are to be performed to all classes of mankind. As might have been foreseen, the French actors, compelled to counterfeit a degree of warmth and feeling which was not suggested by the sentiments they utter, or the language they employ, have fallen very naturally into the error of making the expression of passion immoderately vehement; and thus, when not guided by the language they are to use, have become not only indiscriminate in the introduction of violent emotion, but often run into a degree of warmth, totally destructive of every feeling of propriety and dignity.

The striking circumstance in Talma's acting is, that he alone seems to know how to act the French plays with all the feeling and interest which can be necessary to produce effect; and at the same time, to avoid that exaggerated representation of passion which represses the very emotions it is intended to excite. The means by which the genius of this great actor has accomplished so important an effect, and overcome the difficulties which seem insuperable to the rest of his countrymen, afford the best illustration that can be given of the talents and imagination he displays. Talma appears to have thought, and most justly, that the only manner in which the French tragedies can approach and interest the heart, is by the impression which the character and the moral tendency of the play may, upon the whole, be able to produce, not by the force or pathos which can be thrown into any detached speeches, or by the effect with which individual parts of the tragedy may be given. The impression which might be created by the delivery of any particular passage, or by the expression of any occasional sentiment, he seems at all times to consider as of subordinate importance to the preservation of that permanent character, whether of intense and overpowering suffering, or wild desperation, by which he thinks the feelings of the spectators may be most deeply and heartily interested. Much as we admire the excellencies of the English stage, and none we are persuaded can have an opportunity of comparing it with the acting of the French theatre, without being more sensible of its perfections, we think it may yet be observed, that many important objects are sacrificed to the desire of producing continual emotion,—to the practice of making every sentiment and every word tell upon the audience, with an effect which could not be greater, if that sentiment were the whole object of the tragedy. We admit, most willingly, the talent and feeling which are often so beautifully displayed in the course of the inferior scenes; and the impression, which is so frequently produced over the "whole assembled multitude," by the delivery of a single passage, of no importance in itself, attests sufficiently the merits of the actors who can thus wield at will the passions of the spectators. What we are anxious to observe is, that the general impression, from the play must be less profound, when the mind is thus distracted by a variety of powerful feelings succeeding each other so rapidly, and when the interest, which would naturally increase of itself as the performance proceeds, in the history and moral tendency of the tragedy, is thus broken, as it were, by the influence of so many transient passions. It is very singular to observe the difference, in this respect, between the character of an English and a Parisian audience: To the former, every thing, as it passes, must be given with the greatest effect; no opportunity can safely be omitted, by any one attentive to the public opinion, of displaying the power with which each sentiment may be expressed; and there is no common feeling among the spectators, of the subserviency of all the different parts of the tragedy to one great import, or that it is only in the more important scenes, where the events of the story are coming to a close, that great talent is to be exerted, or profound emotion excited. The feelings of a French audience, as might be expected, are such as better suit the character of the plays which have been so long addressed to them; they like to have their interest awakened, and their feelings excited, only as the story proceeds, and the deeper scenes of the tragedy begin to open upon them; and it is to the general impression which the progress and close of the play leave upon the mind, that they look, as to the criterion of the excellence of the manner, in which that play has been performed. Nothing, therefore, can be apparently quieter than the commencement of a French tragedy; and a person unacquainted with the language, would be disposed to conclude what was passing before him as uninteresting in the highest degree, if he did not observe the most profound and eager attention to prevail in those to whom it is addressed. It would be a subject of very curious and instructive speculation, to examine the circumstances, in the situation and intelligence of the people in both countries, which have occasioned this remarkable difference in their feelings, in moments when the influence of prejudice, or the effect of peculiar character, generally gives way, and when the genuine sentiments of mankind, as invariably happens when the different ranks of men are assembled indiscriminately together, assume their natural empire over the human heart. It might unfold some interesting conclusions both as to the great object of the drama, and the genuine style of dramatic representation; and might place, in a more important point of view than is within the consideration, perhaps, of many who so hastily decide on the superiority of the English stage, the excellence they admire.

Much as the French tragedies are despised in this country, and sensible as we are of many essential defects which belong to them, when considered as the means of exciting popular feeling, or of applying to the duties of common life, we must yet state the very great and lasting impression which many of them left on our minds, and which, we can truly say, was never equalled by any effect produced by the most successful efforts of the English stage. At our own theatres, we have been often more deeply affected during the performance of the play,—we have often admired, much more, the grace, or feeling, or grandeur of the acting we witnessed, and been more highly delighted with the species of talent which was displayed; but yet, we must acknowledge, that the impression that all this left upon the mind, was not such as has been produced by the powers of Talma in the French tragedies. We had many occasions, however, to see that this effect was to be attributed chiefly to the genius of this great actor, and that it was only when entrusted to him, that the influence of these plays was so deeply felt.

The great difference, then, between the acting of Talma, and of the other actors on the French stage, is his constant attention to the means by which the impression, which the general tendency of the play will produce, may be increased. Whatever may be the character which the nature of the tragedy seems to require, his whole powers are employed to pursue that character inviolably during the progress of the play, and to add to the effect it is fitted to produce: The character of profound grief, for instance, is so completely sustained, that the very act of speaking seems an exertion too great for a mind which suffering has nearly exhausted, and where, in consequence, the pomp and energy of declamation, and many of the most natural aids by which passion is wont to express itself, are all disregarded in the intensity of mental agony. It is not uncommon, accordingly, to see Talma perform parts of a tragedy in a manner which might seem tame and unmeaning to one who had not been present at the preceding parts, but which is most interesting to those who have seen the character which he adopts from the first, and feel the propriety and effect of the manner in which that character is sustained. Some of the most striking effects we have ever seen produced in any acting, are in those scenes, in many plays in which he performs, in which, from his powerful and affecting personation of character, his exhausted mind seems unable to enter into any events which are not either to relieve his sufferings, or terminate an existence which appears beset with such hopeless misery. Other actors may have succeeded in expressing as strongly the influence of present suffering, or the despair of intense grief. It is Talma alone who knows how to express, what is so much more grand, the effects of long suffering; to remind you of the misery he has endured by the spectacle of an exhausted frame and broken spirit; and by exhibiting the overwhelming consequence of those sufferings which the poet has not dared to describe, nor the actor ventured to represent to interest the mind far more profoundly than any representation of present passion could possibly effect. The influence of the exertions of other actors is limited to the effects of the emotions they represent, and of the suffering they exhibit: the genius of Talma has imitated the efforts of ancient Greece in her matchless sculpture, and, in every situation which put it within his power, chosen, as the proper field for the display of the actor's powers, not the mere representation of excess in suffering, but that moment of greater interest, when the struggle of nature is past, and the mind has sunk under the pressure of affliction, which no fortitude could sustain, and which no ray of hope had cheered.

Every one knows the peculiar manner in which, in general, the verses of the French tragedy are repeated, and the delight which the French people take in the uniform and balanced modulation of voice with which they are accompanied. In an ordinary actor, this peculiar tone is often, to many foreigners, extremely fatiguing, but it is defended in France, as securing a pleasure in some degree independent of the merits of the actor, and defending the audience from the harshness of tone, and extravagancies of accent, to which otherwise, in bad actors, they would be exposed; and certainly no one can listen, in the National Theatre, to the beautiful and splendid declamations of the most celebrated compositions in French literature, delivered in the manner which has been selected as best adapted to the character of the plays and the taste of the people, with any feeling of indifference. In the skilful hands of Talma, who preserves the beauty of the poetry nearly unimpaired in the very abandon of feeling, the French verse acquires beauties which it never before could boast, and loses all that is harsh or painful in the uniformity of its structure, or the monotony of artificial taste. The description which Le Baron de Grimm has given of Le Kain may be well applied to Talma. "Un talent plus precieux sans doute et qu'il avait porte au plus haut degre c'etait celui de faire sentir tout le charme des beaux vers sans nuire jamais a la verite de l'expression. En dechirant le coeur, il enchantait toujours l'oreille, sa voix penetrait jusqu'au fond de l'ame, et l'impression qu'elle y faisait, semblable a celle du burin, y laissait des traces et longs souvenirs."

The tragedy of Hamlet, in which we saw Talma perform for the first time, is one which must be interesting to every person who has any acquaintance with French literature; and it will not probably be considered as any great digression in a description of Talma's excellencies as an actor, to add some further remarks concerning that celebrated play in which his powers are perhaps most strikingly displayed, and which is one of the greatest compositions undoubtedly of the French theatre. It can hardly be called a translation, as many material alterations were made in the story of the play; and though the general purport of the principal speeches has been sometimes preserved, the language and sentiments are generally extremely different. The character of Shakespeare's Hamlet was wholly unsuited to the taste of a French audience. What is the great attraction in that mysterious being to the feelings of the English people, the strange, wild, and metaphysical ideas which his art or his madness seems to take such pleasure in starting, and the uncertainty in which Shakespeare has left the reader with regard to Hamlet's real situation, would not perhaps have been understood—certainly not admired, by those who were accustomed to consider the works of Racine and Voltaire as the models of dramatic composition. In the play of Ducis, accordingly, Hamlet thinks, talks, and acts pretty much as any other human being would do, who should be compelled to speak only in the verse of the French tragedy, which necessarily excludes, in a great degree, any great incoherence or flightiness of sentiment. In some respects, however, the French Hamlet, if a less poetical personage, is nevertheless a more interesting one, and better adapted to excite those feelings which are most within the command of the actor's genius. M. Ducis has represented him as more doubtful of the reality of the vision which haunted him, or at least of the authority which had commissioned it for such dreadful communications; and this alteration, so important in the hands of Talma, was required on account of other changes which had been made in the story of the play. The paramour of the Queen is not Hamlet's uncle, nor had the Queen either married the murderer, or discovered her criminal connexion with him. Hamlet, therefore, has not, in the incestuous marriage of his mother, that strong confirmation of the ghost's communication, which, in Shakespeare, led him to suspect foul play even before he sees his father's spirit. In the French play, therefore, Hamlet is placed in one of the most dreadful situations in which the genius of poetry can imagine a human being: Haunted by a spirit, which assumes such mastery over his mind, that he cannot dispel the fearful impression it has made, or disregard the communication it so often repeats, while his attachment to his mother, in whom he reveres the parent he has lost, makes him question the truth of crimes which are thus laid to her charge, and causes him to look upon this terrific spectre as the punishment of unknown crime, and the visitation of an offended Deity. Ducis has most judiciously and most poetically represented Hamlet, in the despair which his sufferings produce, as driven to the belief of an over-ruling destiny, disposing of the fate of its unhappy victims by the most arbitrary and revolting arrangement, and visiting upon some, with vindictive fury, the whole crimes of the age in which they live. There is in this introduction of ancient superstition, something which throws a mysterious veil round the destiny of Hamlet, that irresistibly engrosses the imagination, and which must be doubly interesting in that country where the horrors of the revolution have ended in producing a very prevalent, though vague belief, in the influence of fatality upon human character and human actions, among those who pretend to ridicule, as unmanly prejudice and childish delusion, the religion of modern Europe.

The struggle, accordingly, that appears to take place in Hamlet's mind is most striking; and when at last he yields to the authority and the commands of the spirit, which exercises such tyranny over his mind, it does not seem the result of any farther evidence of the guilt which he is enjoined to revenge, but as the triumph of superstition over the strength of his reason. He had long resisted the influence of that visionary being, which announced itself as his father's injured spirit, and in assuming that sacred form, had urged him to destroy the only parent whom fate had left; but the struggle had brought him to the brink of the grave, and shaken the empire of reason; and when at last he abandons himself to the guidance of a power which his firmer nature had long resisted, the impression of the spectator is, that his mind has yielded in the struggle, and that, in the desperate hope of obtaining relief from present wretchedness, he is about to commit the most horrible crimes, by obeying the suggestions of a spirit, which he more than suspects to be employed only to tempt him on to perdition. No description can possibly do justice to the manner in which this situation of Hamlet is represented by Talma; indeed, on reading over the play some time afterwards, it was very evident that the powers of the actor had invested the character with much of the grandeur and terror which seemed to belong to it, and that the imagination of the French poet, which rises into excellence, even when compared with the productions of that great master of the passions whom he has not submitted to copy, has been surpassed by the fancy of the actor for whom he wrote. The Hamlet of Talma is probably productive of more profound emotion, than any representation of character on any stage ever excited.

One other alteration ought to be mentioned, as it renders the circumstances of Hamlet's situation still more distressing, and affords Talma an opportunity of displaying the effects of one of the gentler passions of human nature, when its influence seemed irreconcileable with the stern and fearful duties which fate had assigned to him. The Ophelia of the French play, so unlike that beautiful and innocent being who alone seems to connect the Hamlet of Shakespeare with the feelings and nature of ordinary men, has been made the daughter of the man for whose sake the king has been poisoned, and was engaged to marry Hamlet at that happier period when he was the ornament of his father's court, and the hope of his father's subjects. In the first part of the play, though no hint of the terrible revenge which he was to execute on her father has escaped, the looks and anxiety of Talma discover to her that her fate is in some degree connected with the emotions which so visibly oppress him, and she makes him at last confess the insurmountable barrier which separates them for ever. Nothing can be greater than the acting of Talma during this difficult scene, in which he has to resist the entreaties of the woman whom he loves, when imploring for the life of her father, and yet so overcome with his affection, as hardly to have strength left to adhere to his dreadful purpose.

The feelings of a French audience do not permit the spirit of Hamlet's father to appear on the stage: "L'apparition se passe, (says Madame de Stael)[3], en entier dans la physionomie de Talma, et certes elle n'en est pas ainsi moins effrayante. Quand, au milieu d'un entretien calme et melancolique, tout a coup il apercoit le spectre, on suit tout; ses mouvemens dans les yeux qui le contemplent, et l'on ne peut douter de la presence du fantome quand un tel regard l'atteste." The remark is perfectly just, nothing can be imagined more calculated to dispel at once the effect which the countenance of a great actor, in such circumstances, would naturally produce, than bringing any one on the stage to personate the ghost; and whoever has seen Talma in this part, will acknowledge that the mind is not disposed to doubt, for an instant, the existence of that form which no eye but his has seen, and of that voice which no ear but his has heard. We regretted much, while witnessing the astonishing powers which Talma displayed in this very difficult part of the play, that it was impossible to see his genius employed in giving effect to the character of Aristodemo, (in the Italian tragedy of that name by Monti), to which his talents alone could do justice, and which, perhaps, affords more room for the display of the actor's powers, than any other play with which we are acquainted.

But the soliloquy on death is the part in which the astonishing excellence and genius of Talma are most strikingly displayed. Whatever difficulty there may often be to determine the particular manner in which scenes, with other characters, ought to be performed, there is no difference of opinion as to the manner in which soliloquies ought in general to be delivered. How comes it, then, that these are the very parts in which all feel that the powers of the actors are so much tried, and in which, for the most part, they principally fail? No one can have paid any attention to the English stage, without being struck with the circumstance, that while there may be much to praise in the performance of the other parts, many of the best actors uniformly fail in soliloquies; and that it is only of late, since the reputation of the English stage, has been so splendidly revived, that we have seen these difficult and interesting parts properly performed. It is in this circumstance, more than any other, in which the talents of Talma are most remarkably displayed, because he is peculiarly fitted, by his complete personation of character, and the deep interest which he seems himself to take in the part he is sustaining, to excel in performing what chiefly requires such interest. He is, at all times, so fully impressed with the feelings, which, under such circumstances, must have been really felt, that one is uniformly struck with the truth and propriety of every thing he does; and of course, in soliloquies, which must be perfect, when the actor appears to be seriously and deeply interested in the subjects on which he is meditating, Talma invariably succeeds. In this soliloquy in Hamlet, he is completely absorbed in the awful importance of the great question which occupies his attention, and nothing indicates the least consciousness of the multitude which surrounds him, or even that he is giving utterance to the mighty thoughts which crowd upon his mind. "Talma ne faisoit pas un geste, quelquefois seulement il remuoit la tete pour questioner la terre et le ciel sur ce que c'est que la mort! Immobile, la dignite de la meditation absorboit tout son etre."—De l'Allemagne, 1. c. We could wish to avoid any attempt to describe the acting of Talma in those passages which the eloquence of M. de Stael has rendered familiar throughout Europe; yet we feel that this account of the tragedy of Hamlet would be imperfect, if we did not allude to that very interesting scene, which corresponds, in the history of the play, to the closet scene in Shakespeare. Talma appears with the urn which contains the ashes of his father, and whose injured spirit he seems to consult, to obtain more proof of the guilt which he is to revenge, or in the hope that the affections of human nature may yet survive the horrors of the tomb, and that the duty of the son will not be tried in the blood of the parent who gave him birth. But no voice is heard to alter the sentence which he is doomed to execute; and he is still compelled to prepare himself to meet with sternness his guilty mother. After charging her, with the utmost tenderness and solemnity, with the knowledge of her husband's murder, he places the urn in her hands, and requires her to swear her innocence over the sacred ashes which it contains. At first, the consciousness that Hamlet could only suspect her crime, gives her resolution to commence the oath with firmness; and Talma, with an expression of countenance which cannot be described, awaits, in triumph and joy, the confirmation of her innocence,—and seems to call upon the spirit which had haunted him, to behold the solemn scene which proves the falsehood of its mission. But the very tenderness which he shews destroys the resolution of his mother, and she hesitates in the oath she had begun to pronounce. His feelings are at once changed,—the paleness of horror, and fury of revenge, are marked in his countenance, and his hands grasp the steel which is to punish her guilt: But the agony of his mother again overpowers him, at the moment he is about to strike; he appeals for mercy to the shade of his father, in a voice, in which, as M. de Stael has truly said, all the feelings of human nature seem at once to burst from his heart, and, in an attitude humbled by the view of his mother's guilt and wretchedness, he awaits the confession she seems ready to make: and when she sinks, overcome by the remorse and agony which she feels, he remembers only that she is his mother; the affection which had been long repressed again returns, and he throws himself on his knees, to assure her of the mercy of Heaven. We do not wish to be thought so presumptuous as to compare the talents of the French author with the genius of Shakespeare, but we must be allowed to say, that we think this scene better managed for dramatic effect: and certainly no part of Hamlet, on the English stage, ever produced the same impression, or affected us so deeply. We are well aware, however, how very different the scene would have appeared in the hands of any other actors than Talma and Madle Duchesnois, and that a very great part of the merit which the play seemed to possess, might be more justly attributed to the talents which they displayed. At the conclusion of this great tragedy, which has become so popular in France, and in which the genius of Talma is so powerfully exhibited, the applause was universal; and after some little time, to our surprise, instead of diminishing, became much louder; and presently a cry of Talma burst out from the whole house. In a few minutes the curtain drew up, and discovered Talma waiting to receive the applause with which they honoured him, and to express his sense of the distinction paid to him.

The part of Orestes in Andromaque, is another character in which the acting of Talma is seen to much advantage: and to a foreigner, it is peculiarly interesting, as it displays, more than any other almost, that uncommon power of recitation which distinguishes his acting from the tame and monotonous declamation of the ordinary actors; and which gives to the splendid language, and elevated sentiments of the French tragedies, an effect which cannot easily be understood by any one who has never seen them well performed. The part is one which is remarkably popular at present in Paris, as there is something in the history of that fabulous being, who has been represented as the victim of a capricious and arbitrary Providence, and exposed during his whole life to the most unmerited and horrible torments, which seems greatly to interest the French people; and Talma has thus been led to bestow upon the character a degree of reflection and preparation, which the parts in a French tragedy do not in general require. There is a passage which occurs in the first scene, which exhibits very strikingly the judgment and genuine feeling which uniformly marks his acting. After mentioning what had happened to him after his disappointment, with regard to Hermione, and his separation from Pylades, he says, that he had hastened to the great assembly of the Greeks, which the common interest of Greece had called together, in the hope, that the ardour, the activity, and the love of glory which had distinguished the period of youth, might revive with the animating scene which was again presented to his mind.

"En ce calme trompeur J'arrivai dans la Grece Et Je trouvois d'abord ces princes rassembles, Qu'un peril assez grand sembloit avoir troubles. J'y courus. Je pensai que la guerre et la gloire De soins plus importants remplissoit ma memoire Que mes sens reprenant leur premiere vigueur L'amour acheveroit de sortir de mon coeur. Mais admire avec mois le sort, dont la pursuite Me fait courir alors au piege que j'evite."

There is a similar passage in Othello, in which, when the passion of jealousy had seized upon his mind, the Moor laments the degradation to which he had fallen, when all the objects of his former ambition ceased to interest his imagination, or animate his exertions. In enumerating the occupations which formed the pomp and glorious circumstance of war, but for which the misery of his situation had completely unmanned him, the actors who have attempted this character, fire with the description of the arms which he now abandons, and of the scenes in which his renown had been acquired. In this analogous passage, Talma repeats these scenes with much greater propriety and effect. He appeared overwhelmed by a deep sense of the degradation to which a foolish and unmanly attachment had reduced him; no gesture or tone of voice, expressive of the slightest animation, escaped him, when he described the objects of his youthful ambition; every thing denoted the shame and regret of a man who felt that his glory and his occupation were gone, and who no longer dared to look up with pride to the remembrance of those better days, when his valour and his resolution were the admiration of Greece.

The scene between Orestes and Hermione on their first meeting, is one in which Talma displays very great power: with his heart full of the passion from which he had suffered so much, he begins the declaration of his constancy in the most ardent and impressive manner, and for a time seems to flatter himself, that resentment at the neglect which she had met with from Pyrrhus might have awakened some affection for himself in the breast of Hermione. At first she is anxious to secure Orestes in case that Pyrrhus should ultimately slight her, and is at pains to confirm the hope which she perceives that this passion had created: But when he urges her to take the opportunity which how offered itself, of leaving a court where she appeared to be detained only to witness the marriage of her rival, she betrays at once the state of her mind:—

"Mais, seigneur, cependant s'il epouse Andromaque. Oreste. He, madame. Her. Songez quelle honte pour nous, Si d'une Phrygienne il devenoit lepoux. Oreste. Et vous le haissez!"—&c.

The indignant and bitter irony with which Talma delivers this speech, when he finds that resentment at Pyrrhus, and not affection for himself, has made her thus anxious to rivet the chains which her former cruelty had hardly weakened, is most striking, and he seems at once to regain the independence which he had lost.

There is another passage of very peculiar interest, which we hope it will not be prolonging these remarks too far to quote, as affording a very striking instance of the effect which the powers of Talma are able to produce, under almost any circumstances. When Pyrrhus, at one part of the play, consents to surrender Astyanax, and by this rupture with Andromache, resolves to marry Hermione, Orestes is thrown at once into the utmost despair by this sudden change of plans, and by this disappointment of his hopes. When he again appears with Pylades, he threatens to take the most violent measures, to interrupt this marriage, and to carry off Hermione by force from the court where she was detained. His friend naturally feels for the wound which his fame must suffer from such an outrage, and the dishonour which it would bring upon a name rendered sacred throughout Greece, from the unmerited misfortunes which he had sustained. "Voila donc le succes qu'aura votre ambassade. Oreste ravisseur." But such considerations are of no avail in the intemperance of his present feelings; and Orestes, after alluding to the injury of a second rejection by Hermione, proceeds to another motive, which urged him to any means, however violent to secure his object, and which most powerfully interests the imagination. Every one knows the supposed history of that mysterious character, whose destiny seemed to have placed him at the disposal of some unrelenting enemy of the human race, and who had suffered every misfortune which could oppress human nature.

"—Mais, s'il faut ne te rien deguiser Mon innocence enfin commence a me peser, Je ne sais, de tout tems, quelle injuste puissence Laisse le crime en paix, et poursuit l'innocence, De quelque part sur moi que je trouve les yeux, Je ne vois que malheurs qui condamnent lea Dieux, Meritons leur courroux, justifions leur haine, Et que le fruit du crime en precede la peine."

It is a remark of Seneca, that the most sublime spectacle in nature is the view of a great man struggling against misfortune, and such a character has ever been considered as the most appropriate subject for dramatic representation. The extreme difficulty of succeeding, in the very important passage which I have quoted, is obviously because the very reverse of such a spectacle is now presented to the mind,—when Orestes is made to abandon that distinction in his fate which alone gave him any peculiar hold over the feelings of the spectators, and because the actor must continue to engage, even more deeply than before, their interest and their pity, at the very time when the sentiments he utters must necessarily lower the dignity of the character he sustains, and diminish the compassion he had previously awakened. How, then, is that ascendency over the mind, which the singular destiny of Orestes naturally acquires, to be preserved, when he no longer is to be regarded as the innocent sufferer who claims our interest, and when he is content to descend to the level of ordinary men? In this very difficult passage Talma is eminently successful; no vehemence of manner accompanies the desperate resolution he expresses, the recollection of the misery he has suffered, and the dread of the greater misfortunes which his present intentions must bring upon him, seem wholly to overpower him, and his countenance, marked with the utmost dejection and wretchedness, appears still to appeal for mercy to the power which persecutes him. Everything in his appearance and voice conveys the impression of a person overwhelmed with misfortunes, and hurried on, by an impulse he cannot controul, into greater calamities, and more complicated misery. The very sentiment which he avows, seems to proceed from the over-ruling influence of a destiny which he has in vain attempted to resist, and to be only another proof of the unceasing persecution to which he is exposed; and though he no longer commands admiration, or deserves esteem, he becomes more than ever the object of the deepest commiseration. Talma appears to attach much importance to the impression which this passage may produce, as much of the view which he exhibits of the character of Orestes seems intended to assist its effect; and we certainly consider it as the greatest and most successful effort of genius, which we have ever seen displayed upon any stage. After witnessing this representation of the character of Orestes at this melancholy period of his life, it was with no ordinary interest that we shortly after saw Talma perform the part of Orestes in Iphigenie en Tauride, a play which represents very beautifully the only event in his life, which ever seemed likely to secure his happiness, the discovery of his sister; and we shall never forget the beautiful expression of Talma's countenance, and the delightful tones of his voice, when he described to his sister and his friend, the emotions which the feeling of happiness so new to him had created, and the hopes of future exertion and honour, which he now felt himself able to entertain.