THE DRAMA.

'Since Friday last the news we've had,Has been, dear Sir, extremely bad:An Indian of the Senecas,A white who swears to all he says,Have brought a most alarming story,The substance I shall set before ye:Six nations of the Indians, set onBy Satan and the imps of Britain,Have join'd the Indians to the westward,By which we soon shall be quite prest hard;They now are crossing o'er the lake,Fort Franklin to surprise and take;That Fort will certainly be taken,And scarce a settler save his bacon.'

Two days after, he adds the following, by way of postscript:

'The news I wrote three days ago,This day I learn is all untrue;The British have not gain'd their ends,The Senecas are still our friends:Fort Franklin is in statu quo,Nor dreads a white or yellow foe;For Capt.Dennyfinds he can go,And I suppose is at Venango.'Although t' extract the naked truth,We put these traders on their oath;Yet while they swear to what they say,We find we're humm'd from day to day;Hence, when I write to you again,A second letter shall the first explain.'

'Although t' extract the naked truth,We put these traders on their oath;Yet while they swear to what they say,We find we're humm'd from day to day;Hence, when I write to you again,A second letter shall the first explain.'

In Animal Magnetism parlance, we 'will' the reader from off our shoulder, and close the book. It is matter-full, however, and peradventure we may open it yet again, anon.

Music—Mr. Russell.—Our theatrical reporters have left us but brief space wherein to reply to a correspondent of the Philadelphia 'National Gazette,' who, in a long communication bearing the signature of 'Honestus,' censures the tone of our remarks in relation to Mr.Henry Russell, the popular vocalist, and the peculiar style of his performances. Both the writer alluded to, and the editor who publishes and endorses his strictures, 'trust that theKnickerbockerwill not maintain a dignified silence' under their remarks, since, originating in a work supposed to be influential in leading public opinion, the observations complained of 'have inflicted deep injury on the profession of music, taking away incentive to honest professional toil, close study, and real science,' by elevating a false standard of musical excellence. The writer denies, in so many words, that Mr.Russellever received the honors in Italy, to which he lays claim; doubts his having been 'a pupil for three years underRossini,' or that he studied underGenerali,Mayerbeer, and other masters; affirms that 'The Brave Old Oak' is transposed, without acknowledgment, fromLoder, save a few trifling alterations for the worse; that 'Some Love to Roam' does not bear the real composer's name; and that five-sixths of the 'Treatise on Singing,' recently issued, with Mr.Russell's name as author, are plagiarized from a work on singing by Rodolph, who has been dead these thirty years.

We depart for once from our uniform practice of silence, in relation to newspaper comments upon articles which appear in theKnickerbocker, to correct one or two errors of the correspondent in question. In regard to the honors received, and the studies pursued by Mr.Russell, 'Honestus' will perceive, by reference to the article in our last number, that the entire paragraph touching his personal and musical history, is quoted from an article in the 'New-York Mirror,' far more laudatory and elaborate than the one which embodied it, as an extract. Theonus, therefore, in so far as these statements and the remarks which they elicited are concerned, rests not with this Magazine. As to the remaining charges of 'Honestus,'if established, we shall be found not less ready than himself to counsel one capable of such deception, to lose no time in bringing down his pretensions to the level of his talents; and farther, commend him to a serious reflex upon the folly of a course so unworthy of his reputation. In the mean time, however, let it not be forgotten, that there aretwo sidesto this matter, and that Mr.Russellis extant, to reply for himself to these anonymous accusations.[17]

The opinions we expressed of Mr.Russell's singing, are entertained by the great majority of those who have heard him; and our remarks in regard to the musicalaffectationsof the day were not lightly hazarded, nor did they fail, as we have good reason to know, to strike an answering chord in the hearts of our readers. Italian effeminacy, elaborate ornament, (often known in musical parlance by the term 'difficult execution,') interpolated upon the simplest airs, demanded reprehension. It was ridiculousimitation, pressed by Fashion into the service, and was lamentably infectious, from theprima donna, down to the tawdry damsels who flirt at the tail of a chorus, and the piano-strumming miss, redolent of bread-and-butter. It would have irked even Aristophanes, the quintessential, to have heard, as we have heard, some such melody as 'John Anderson my Joe' garnished with attenuated and circumfused skeletons or shades of notes, in endless progression and recurrence, by your 'difficult execution'-er, bent on wreaking all the tones of his voice upon a single word. Bells jangled out of tune, and harsh, or 'the spheres touched by a raw angel,' would have the advantage, in comparative execrability, over such refined tinkerings of simple melody. It was this misplaced ornament, (rendered for a periodfashionable, by the affected ecstasies of 'genteel' young men without brains, and small travelled amateurs, who voted it 'the thing,') that we condemned, andnotmusic, cultivated and improved by the great masters of the art.

Letters and Life of Charles Lamb.—There is at the 'Merchants' Exchange' in this city, the model of a machine for re-pressing cotton-bales. Would that some ingenious person would invent a similar process, by which much of the matter of such a work asTalfourd's 'Letters ofCharles Lamb, with a Sketch of his Life'—now lying damp before us, in all the luxury of London typography—could be re-pressed into these pages, for the gratification of our readers! In the absence, howbeit, of so desirable a power, we may present such condensed portions as can be subdued 'by hand,' withal. The letters in these volumes are connected by a 'thread of narrative,' which evinces a kindred spirit between Lamb and his biographer. The author of 'Ion' was an old and familiar friend of 'Elia's; hence he every where exhibits a thorough knowledge of his character, not less than a perfect appreciation of his originality of thought, the delicacy and refinement of his taste, and the fascination of his language. These familiar epistles set before usthe man, as he lived, moved, and acted. We have here, too, the first germs of those delicate children of his brain, which have rarely been equalled, and never surpassed. We see the sources whence sprang the dainty thought, the charming image; and we may mark the daily creation and circumfusion of those felicitous conceits with which the name of 'Elia' is inseparably associated. What a reader was he; and how the ferreted beauties of the old worthies 'slid into his soul!' Upon the fertile suggestions of a creative, observant spirit, were inoculated and grafted the rich treasures of the elder intellects. But as our associate, in 'Brotherly Love,' (in a double sense,) has, since the above was penned, spoken elsewhere in this Magazine of these distinctive endowments and graces, we forbear farther comment. 'Revenons à Mouton.' Return we toLamb:

As the volumes will hereafter be issued from the press of the BrothersHarper, we shall postpone a 'prepared report' upon them, until another number; contenting ourselves, in the mean time, with a few selections, in the perusal of which we have had especial delight. The annexed—to plunge at once,in medias res, into the work—was addressed to a friend who was about to depart for the East, being haunted with the idea of oriental adventure:

"My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury suchpartsin heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say, they are Cannibals; and then, conceive a Tartar-felloweatingmy friend, and adding thecool malignityof mustard and vinegar! * * * The Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchey set. You'll be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Praytry, and cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas none of my thoughtoriginally.) Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the heart-burn.Shave the upper lip.Go about like an European. Read no books of voyages (they are nothing but lies,) only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy under. Above all, don't go to any sights ofwild beasts.That has been your ruin.Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on common subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate understanding. And think about common things more. I supped last night with Rickman, and met a merrynaturalcaptain, who pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakspeare he liked, because he wasso much of the gentleman. Rickman is a man 'absolute in all numbers.' I think I may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at five-pence a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in Holland,) not as a guest, but as a meat."

The attractions which a New-York 'May Day' would have had for one whose horror of 'moving' is thus naturally accounted for, may be readily conceived:

"What a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word moving! Such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all is got into the cart; old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes, gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most necessitous person can ever want, but which the women, who preside on these occasions, will not leave behind, if it was to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. Then you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into your new lodgings. You must comb your hair with your fingers, wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. Was I Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret. Our place of final destination—I don't mean the grave, but No. 4, Inner Temple-lane—looks out upon a gloomy church yard-like court, called Hare-court, with three trees and a pump in it. Do you know it? I was born near it, and used to drink at that pump when I was a Rechabite of six years old."

A clever artist might readily transfer the following picture to the canvass, though his imagination were naught. It describes the misfortune of a 'cisled' fellow-clerk in the East India House, akin to one whom he elsewhere mentions, as 'pouring down goblet after goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last:'

"The E. I. H. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange phenomenon of poor —— —— whom I have known man and madman twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself by nine years and more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping, half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive chap; a little too fond of the creature; who isn't at times? but —— had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit by ten o'clock next morning, and, unfortunately, in he wandered the other morning, drunk with last night, and with a superfœtation of drink taken in since he set out from bed. He came staggering under his double burthen, like trees in Java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as I have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face literally as blue as the bluest firmament; some wretched calico that he had moped his poor oozy front with had rendered up its native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it, but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale of indigo, and set up a laugh which I did not think the lungs of mortal man were competent to. It was like a thousand people laughing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterward that the whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own sounds strike upon hisnonsensorium. But —— has laugh'd his last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from an abused income of £600 per annum to one-sixth of the sum, after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. The quality of mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped not on him from heaven."

Lamb was a creature of ardent sympathies. His social affections were as fresh and tender as those of childhood; and in the subjoined extract from a letter to Wordsworth, these characteristics are admirably portrayed:

"Deaths overset one, and put one out long after the recent grief. Two or three have died within this last two twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. One sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other: the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of sympathies. There's Capt. Burney gone! What fun has whist now?—what matters it what you lead, if you can not fancy him looking over you? One never hears any thing, but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would care to share the intelligence: thus one distributes oneself about—and now for so many parts of me I have lost the market. Common natures do not suffice me. Good people, as they are called, won't serve. I want individuals. I am made up of queer points, and I want so many answering needles. The going away of friend does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A., but all A.'s part in C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables."

But gentle-spirited as he was, Lamb knew how to use the polished weapon of satire. Witness his 'Letter to Southey,' and the following keen sonnet upon the editor of the Quarterly Review. It is a revenge for the severely-expressed 'distaste of a small though acute mind, for an original power which it could not appreciate, and which disturbed the conventional associations of which it was master.'Giffordwas originally a shoe-maker. The sonnet is entitled, 'Saint Crispinto Mr.Gifford,' and dated 'Saint Crispin's Eve':

"All unadvised, and in an evil hour,Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daftThe lowly labors of the 'Gentle Craft'For learned toils, which blood and spirit sour.All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground:And sweet content of mind is oftener foundIn cobbler's parlor, than in critic's bower.The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;And better to this hour you had been plyingTho obsequious awl, with well-waxed finger flying,Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein:Still teasing muses, which are still denying;Making a stretching-leather of your brain."

The annexed ludicrous account of a temporary indisposition, was addressed to Bernard Barton, the well-known Quaker poet. It breathes the very spirit of 'Elia:'

"Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day-mare—'a whoreson lethargy,' Falstaff call it—an indisposition to do any thing—a total deadness and distaste—a suspension of vitality—an indifference to locality—a numb, soporifical, good-for-nothingness—an ossification all over—an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events—a mind stupor—abrawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? This has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse; my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it's three-and-twenty furlongs from hence to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to say; nothing is of more importance than another; I am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge ——'s wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it; a cipher, an 0! I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the world, and the world is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I don't think it worth the expense of candles. My wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say, 'will it?' I have not volition enough left to dot my i's, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a Grub-street attic to let—not so much as a joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not I; just as chickens run about a little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout, of cholic, tooth-ache—an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life—the sharper, the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold—a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill, and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing? Yet do I try all I can to cure it; I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment!"It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps; Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew demurs at first at three half-crowns, but, on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes."

"It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps; Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew demurs at first at three half-crowns, but, on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes."

In the same vein is the following, written under similar circumstances:

"I have had my head and ears stuffed up with the east winds. A continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the spheres touched by some raw angel. Is it not George the Third tuning the Hundredth Psalm? I get my music for nothing. But the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw my stunnings. Coleridge, writing to me a week or two since, began his note: 'Summer has set in with his usual severity.' A cold summer is all I know disagreeable in cold. I do not mind the utmost rigour of real winter, but these smiling hypocritical Mays wither me to death. My head has been ringing chaos, like the day the winds were made, before they submitted to the discipline of a weather-cock, before the quarters were made. In the street, with the blended noises of life about me, I hear, and my head is lightened; but in a room, the hubbub comes back, and I am deaf as a sinner. Did I tell you of a pleasant sketch Hood has done, which he calls, 'Very deaf indeed?' It is of a good-natured, stupid-looking old gentleman, whom a foot-pad has stopped, but for his extreme deafness cannot make him understand what he wants. The unconscious old gentleman is extending his ear-trumpet very complacently, and the fellow is firing a pistol into it to make him hear, but the ball will pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his sensorium. I choose a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisses when I bend down to write. I can hardly read a book, forI miss that small soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises(almost imperceptibly to you)in a silent reader.I seem too deaf to see what I read.But with a touch of returning zephyr, my head will melt."

It is in a letter to the same staid correspondent, that we find the following reflections on the fate of Fauntleroy, who was executed many years since in London. It is 'a strange mingling of humor and solemn truth:'

"And now, my dear Sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. The fate of the unfortunate Fauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity of situation, are exposed to a similarity of temptation. My very style seems to myself to become more impressive than usual, with the charge of them. Who that standeth, knoweth but he may yet fall? Your hands as yet, I am most willing to believe, have never deviated into other's property. You think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence; but so thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many beside him, who at last have expiated as he hath done. You are as yet upright; but you are a banker, or at least the next thing to it. I feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a great amount. If in an unguarded hour——but I will hope better. Consider the scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would go to see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the fate of a Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems alone, not to mention higher considerations! I tremble, I am sure, at myself, when I think that so many poor victims of the law, at one time of their life, made as sure of never being hanged, as I, in my own presumption, am ready, too ready, to do myself. What are we better than they? Do we come into the world with different necks? Is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are we unstrangulable, I ask you? Think on these things. I am shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their resemblance to the ape tribe, (which is something,) but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking, fingering, etc."

Here is a capital programme for those losel scouts whose 'tales of the crusades' which are waged against the canine species, generally fill our newspapers in the dog-days. We have no doubt that similar suggestions to those here thrown out, have been acted upon by many a dog-hater, in the fervid summer solstice, what time a worsevirus than the hydrophobic was raging in his brain. Lamb is inquiring after his adopted dog, 'Dash:'

"Goes he muzzled, oraperto ore? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little inhisconversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him. All the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers; but I protest they seem to me very rational and collected. But nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are not used to them. Try him with hot water: if he won't lick it up, it is a sign—he does not like it. Does his tail wag horizontally, or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful? I mean when he is pleased—for otherwise there is no judging. You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, and keephimfor curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had it at one time; but that was inHyder-Ally's time. Do you get paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull out his teeth, (if he would let you,) and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a bedlamite."

There is an adroit satire upon epitaphs—certificates of good character given to persons on going to a new place, who oftentimes had none in the places they left—in the annexed fragment from a letter enclosing an acrostic:

"I am afraid I shall sicken you of acrostics, but this last was writtento order. I beg you to have inserted in your country paper, something like this advertisement: 'To the nobility, gentry, and others about Bury:—C. Lamb respectfully informs his friends and the public in general, that he is leaving off business in the acrostic line, as he is going into an entirely new line. Rebuses and charades done as usual, and upon the old terms. Also, epitaphs to suit the memory of any person deceased.'"

A few original anecdotes of Lamb must close our notice for the present. The first dry specimen was doubtless suggested by the closing couplet of a London street-ballad, wherein is set forth the ultra fickleness of a female 'lovyer:'

'And there I spied that faithless she,A fryin' sassengers for he!'

"One day, at the exhibition of the Royal Academy, I was sitting on a form, looking at the catalogue, and answering some young people about me who had none, or spared themselves the trouble of consulting it. There was a large picture of Prospero and Miranda; and I had just said, 'It is byShee;' when a voice near me said, 'Would it not be more grammatical to say byher?' I looked, it was Mr. Lamb."He went with a party down to my brother Charles's ship, in which the officers gave a ball to their friends. My brother hired a vessel to take us down to it, and some one of the company asked its name. On hearing it was theAntelope, Mr. Lamb cried out, 'Don't name it; I have such a respect for my aunt, I cannot bear to think of her doing such a foolish action!'"A widow-friend of Lamb having opened a preparatory school for children at Camden Town, said to him, 'I live so far from town I must have a sign, I think you call it, to show that I teach children.' 'Well,' he replied, 'you can have nothing better than 'The Murder of the Innocents!'"A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was telling him that eight people dined at the top of the spire of that edifice; upon which he remarked, that they must be very 'sharp set!'"An old woman, on a cold, bleak day, begged of him for charity: 'Ah! Sir,' said she, 'I have seen better days.' 'So have I,' said Lamb; meaning literally one not so rainy and overcast as the one on which she begged."Mrs. H—— was sitting on a sofa one day, between Mr. Montague and Mr. Lamb. The latter spoke to her, but all her attention was given to the other party. At last they ceased talking, and turning round to Mr. Lamb, she asked what it was he had been saying? He replied, 'Ask Mr. Montague, for it went in at one ear and out at another.'"Coleridge one day said to him: 'Charles, did you ever hear mepreach?' 'I never heard you do any thing else,' said Lamb."

"He went with a party down to my brother Charles's ship, in which the officers gave a ball to their friends. My brother hired a vessel to take us down to it, and some one of the company asked its name. On hearing it was theAntelope, Mr. Lamb cried out, 'Don't name it; I have such a respect for my aunt, I cannot bear to think of her doing such a foolish action!'

"A widow-friend of Lamb having opened a preparatory school for children at Camden Town, said to him, 'I live so far from town I must have a sign, I think you call it, to show that I teach children.' 'Well,' he replied, 'you can have nothing better than 'The Murder of the Innocents!'

"A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was telling him that eight people dined at the top of the spire of that edifice; upon which he remarked, that they must be very 'sharp set!'

"An old woman, on a cold, bleak day, begged of him for charity: 'Ah! Sir,' said she, 'I have seen better days.' 'So have I,' said Lamb; meaning literally one not so rainy and overcast as the one on which she begged.

"Mrs. H—— was sitting on a sofa one day, between Mr. Montague and Mr. Lamb. The latter spoke to her, but all her attention was given to the other party. At last they ceased talking, and turning round to Mr. Lamb, she asked what it was he had been saying? He replied, 'Ask Mr. Montague, for it went in at one ear and out at another.'

"Coleridge one day said to him: 'Charles, did you ever hear mepreach?' 'I never heard you do any thing else,' said Lamb."

We shall discuss anew these teeming volumes, when the American edition (which it is to be hoped will possess the portraits of the English) shall have appeared.

Bristol Academy,Taunton, (Mass.)—A catalogue of the officers, teachers, and pupils of this institution, now before us, affords very favorable evidence of the prosperity which it enjoys, under the supervision of its able preceptor,J. N. Bellows, Esq. It already numbers nearly an hundred pupils, in the male and female departments, embracing residents in various quarters of the country. The plan of instruction, set forth in the appendix, is an excellent one; 'uniting, as far as practicable, pleasure with study, yet not to the neglect of strictness of discipline, and thoroughness in the business of instruction,' in which the art of teaching, as a profession, is included, in a separate department.

Park Theatre—Mr. Forrest.—Twosucceeding engagements of Mr.Forrest, have given us an opportunity of witnessing his efforts in all of his old, and in some (to him) new characters. Othello, Damon, Richard III., Metamora, Spartacus, Lear, Carwin, in the 'Orphan of Geneva,' and even Hamlet, have in turn been presented, through the impersonations of Mr. Forrest. Among these, there are some characters which long ago he made his own, and which have not since found any other representative. Such are Metamora, Spartacus, and perhaps Damon; Othello and Lear, too, had been previously attempted by Mr. Forrest, and found among his many friends enthusiastic admirers. This last engagement, however, has presented this gentleman in two new characters, Richard and Hamlet. Of the first of these, it shall be our province to speak in this paper.

Mr. Forrest has challenged criticism upon his conception of the character of the Duke of Gloster, by his remarks contained in a published letter to a friend, written during his English visit. In this letter he boldly affirms, that the ideas whichEdmund Keanalways held of the personage which he represented as the Duke of Gloster, were erroneous, in one great particular, and that thereforeheshould portray the crook-backed tyrant in a light quite different from that in which Kean presented him. This error of Kean consisted, it seems, in supposing the royal cut-throat to have been a tooseriousvillain; in presenting the early part of his career in a shade too sombre. According to Mr. Forrest, the wily duke was rather inclined to be jocose in his butcheries; and he should therefore, in his personation of the character, make the jester a sort ofbasso-relievoto the hard, black surface of his marble heart.

Now we admire originality, whether it be displayed on the stage, at the bar, in the pulpit, on the canvass, or in books. Whether the original be a cobbler, or an architect, we hail his advent with joy and gratulation. That clever artist, who first conceived the interesting metamorphosis whereby a sliver of wood could be converted into a pumpkin-seed, deserves, indeed, more praise for his singular ingenuity, than for any lasting blessing thereby conferred upon mankind. Nor can we affirm, that the kindred hand which first transposed the same material into those cherished condiments of eastern Ind, y'clept nutmegs, has claim to any higher reward; yet were both these worthies original thinkers, and thereby entitled to the respect due to genius. To endeavor to trace back some great original thought to the impulse which first opened the way to its creation; to search for the early germ, no bigger perhaps than a grain of mustard-seed, out of which the towering tree sprang up in all its original greatness, is a subject which must always engage the attention, and employ the research, of the admirers of genius. We have therefore endeavored, by the most patient and diligent study, both of Shakspeare and his commentators, to discover the ground upon which Mr. Forrest formed his original reading of the Duke of Gloster, or the hint, if possible, from which he snatched his conception of the murdering duke's jocular disposition. The only peg which we can possibly discover, whereon we suppose Mr. Forrest might hang his wonderful originality, is comprised in that line wherein the crafty Gloster, gloating over that devilish hypocrisy with which he is enabled to cloak his monstrous villanies, exclaims:

'For I can smile, and murder while I smile.'

Mr. Forrest was no doubt struck with this passage. It seemed to him to contain the germ of a mighty thought, and in his aspirations for immortality, he has given a liberal meaning to the passage, and rendered it thus:

'For I can laugh, and murder while I laugh!'

The spirit of originality seized upon his desires and his faculties at the same moment; and with a determination to wither at a blast the laurels of Kean, Cook, John Kemble, Booth, and a host of less distinguished worthies, he has, in the magnitude of his wisdom, declared them 'sumphs' in their ignorance of Shakspeare, and himself the only true representative of the most powerful of the bard's creations!

'Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought;'What power,' he cries, 'what power these wonders wrought!'Soul! what thou seek'st is in thee; look and find,Thy monster meets his likeness in thy mind.'

We were truly inclined to give Mr. Forrest credit for too much good sense, to be tempted into any such absurd extravagance as he has been guilty of, in attempting to foist his new reading of Richard upon an intelligent public. He must have discarded all authority, and taken it upon himself to settle this question with the world; and hehassettled it, in a way most lamentable for his judgment. The first three acts of Richard were really pitiable. There was a lack of every thing which we had long supposed belonged to the character. His sarcasms—those biting sentences which Kean made so withering—were turned to absolute jests—regular Joe Millers in blank verse!Gloster murdered in joke, and all his villanies became, as Mr. Forrest presented them, no more than the peccadilloes of Punch. The scene with Queen Anne had no propriety whatever. It was not the wily Gloster, whose tongue could 'wheedle with the devil,' but the gay, slashing Corinthian, paying his devoirs to a moonlight Cyprian. The Duke of Gloster was a gentleman, bloody-minded enough, truly, but with the polish of a court about him, and an air of nobility as inseparable as his hump; both of which Mr. Forrest discarded long before the Duke of Gloster gave up the ghost. The last two acts, and especially the very last, were powerful, so far as physical effort could render them powerful. The tent-scene was terrific in this respect; it was like the 'tic doloureux,' deafening and dull. It was heavy physical force, with very little of genius to thrill or to startle; a sort of artificial thunder, without the lightning. Strange that any can be found to uphold such extravagance; but rant and fustian seem the order of the day; and he whose lungs are the stoutest, seems the victor among modern tragedians.

'The rabble knows not where our dramas shine,But when the actor roars, 'By Jove! that's fine!'

Ellen Tree.—The finest comedies in the language, presented to us, in their principal characters, through the acting of MissEllen Tree, have proved, during the last engagement of this lady, that a true taste for the legitimate drama yet exists in full force in America, however it may have degenerated on the other side of the water. 'Rosalind,' 'Beatrice,' 'Lady Teazle,' 'Viola,' as well as 'Ion,' 'Jane Shore,' 'Clarisse,' in theBarrack-Room, 'Christine,' and a multitude of other characters, as varied in their kind as these, have offered a rich intellectual treat to all who can appreciate the chaste, ungarnished beauties of the drama. It would be superfluous to speak of Miss Tree's merit in these characters. To us, at least, she has become identified with them all; and in speaking of her performances, we must say that the task can only be a repetition of that even strain of unadulterated praise, which, justly awarded, belongs only to perfection. We look in vain for some fault, some discrepancy, some point which might be improved upon. All is so near thebeau idealof her art, that we must, in omitting all censure, either confess ourselves wanting in judgment, or at once acknowledge Miss Ellen Tree a being more perfect on the stage, than any we know or can conceive of, off of it. Perhaps the greatest of her many merits is the remarkable purity of her utterance, and the true sound and meaning with which she clothes the language of the author. In the classic phrases of 'Ion,' this beauty is prominent; the choice words which form the finished sentences of this gem of English literature, are sounded full in every letter. Vowels and consonants receive their measured justice, and every line is meted out with its just cadence, imparting to our much-abused English a quality as free from blemish as it is capable of sustaining. In common or less classical compositions, the words are endued with a strength and beauty, which are borrowed from her perfection of utterance. There is a roundness and a rich purity in her pronunciation, which gives a finish and fullness to the sound, that is really musical. She is a worthy mistress of the Queen's English.

Madame Caradori Allan.—A new star inourmusical world has shone upon us during the past month; not the less dazzlingly, perhaps, from its foreign lustre. Mde.Allanpossesses asopranovoice, of a light quality. She sings with great apparent ease, and there is a finish to every note, worthy of the highest praise. Her execution is graceful in the extreme. The most rapid notes glide as distinctly through her voice as the most slow and measured. There is neither hesitation in the one, nor hurry in the other. All are in exact time, and evince in their execution a degree of study seldom effected, and a taste fully competent to seize upon and display the most exquisite beauties of the art. Her manner is evidently that of one unaccustomed to the stage; that of a sensitive and delicate gentlewoman, suddenly placed in a situation new to her, but embarrassing only from its novelty. If, as has been asserted, Mde. Allan's first appearance here was really herdébutin an opera made up of English words, she certainly has great reason to congratulate herself on the success which attended even her acting of the part of 'Rosina.' The execution of the opening song, the 'Unâ Voce,' first in English, and then, in obedience to anencore, in Italian, was truly as beautiful as we can fancy it in the power of her peculiar voice to make it. It was certainly sufficient to merit one of the most rapturous bursts of applause that was ever listened to. The other music of her part was equally well executed, if we except those pieces where low contralto notes were to be sounded. Here, of course, the artiste could do nothing; and she showed her good sense by attempting nothing. We particularly noticed this peculiarity in the concerted piece at the close of the first act. Having no contralto notes in her voice, it was impossible for her to express the music belonging to this scene. A repetition of 'The Barber,' on the next night, gave us an opportunity of witnessing the same beauties, and the same slight defects. There was, as might have beenexpected, less embarrassment than on the previous evening; while the acting, and the stage-business altogether, was more easy and natural. 'Love in a Village' displayed the high faculties of Mde. Allan to still greater advantage, and certainly, with one glorious exception, we never heard the melodies which belong to 'Rosetta' more exquisitely given. There were two simple ballads introduced, which, in her way of expressing them, made perfect gems of the hacknied 'Coming through the Rye,' and 'I'm Over Young to Marry.' It is the peculiar province of genius to hallow all it breathes upon; and surely, in a musical way, this truth was never more clearly exemplified. We are sorry to say, however, that with the exception of Mr.Placide, Mde. Allan has been most wretchedly supported. Mr.Jonessang worse than ever, and acted no better. Mr.Richingsis not equal to the parts which we honestly believe he isobligedto sustain in opera. His exertions, however, as 'Hawthorn,' would, on this particular evening, have been entitled to less censure, if he had taken the trouble to learn his part. The minor characters in opera are shamefully executed at this house. They were bad enough when theWoodsandBroughwere to be supported, but infinitely worse now. There are singers enough in the country to make up this deficiency. Why are they not engaged? There is Mr.Broughfor the 'Basils,' Mr.Lathamfor the 'Figaros;' there is Mr.Horn, whocan sing, if he cannotactthe 'Elvinos'; and surely an 'Almaviva' and a 'Hawthorn' might be found, to fill the places of those who now disgrace these characters at the Park. With two or three exceptions, (and among them, in justice, we must name Mr.Hayden,) the most exquisite music is played by an admirable orchestra to no better purpose than to show the sad deficiency of the singers. Of Mde. Caradori Allan's performance of the 'Somnambulist,' we are not prepared to speak fully; as, in consequence of the early hour at which this Magazine is put to press, we have, 'at this present writing,' only seen her first appearance in the character; when, from over-exertion, perhaps, in the second act, she was unable to go through with the third as satisfactorily as we may hope practice will enable her to do hereafter.

The National Theatre, under its present management, is second to none in the United States in the varied talent and efficiency of its acting company, in scenic effect, general good order, the attraction and excellence of its entertainments, and the number and respectability of its audiences. It has uncommon materials for either tragedy, comedy, or opera. 'Macbeth' and 'Othello,' for example, the 'School for Scandal,' 'Cure for the Heart-ache,' etc., could not probably be produced more effectively in any particular, even at Drury Lane. Othello, especially, withJ. W. Wallack,Vandenhoff,Browne,Abbott, MissWheatley, and Mrs.Sefton, in the principal characters, is really a rare treat. It is so much likeShakspeare's Othello, that we think even the great bard himself would recognise it; which is more than can be said of most portraitures of his splendid creations. In 'Macbeth,' too, we opine that Mr. Vandenhoff is scarcely excelled, even by Macready—still less by any other living tragedian; and at neither of the two great London theatres, where we saw Macready in this character about a year since, was the play otherwise better done than at the National. In his personations of Hamlet, Iago, and Cato, Mr. Vandenhoff is also preeminently great, if not unequalled. He has strongly confirmed his reputation as an artist of the first order in his profession, and he is, moreover, as we are assured by those who know him, a gentleman of sterling acquirements, and unassuming worth. In person, he is of medium height, with an intellectual and expressive face, and a voice at once pleasing and powerful. An emphasis sometimes rather toodrawling, is the only exception we can make to his usually chaste and judicious elocution.

A review of the performances at the 'Woodworth Benefit,' some wholesome advice to Mr.Gann, for over-action, a notice at large of 'The English Gentleman,' (a most sterling play,) together with a report upon the laughable and admirably-acted piece, 'Gulliver in Liliput,' although in type, are reluctantly, yet unavoidably, omitted.

The American Theatre, Bowery, has presented to large audiences, since our last notice, a melodramatic piece called the 'Bronze Horse,' the scenery, machinery, dresses, and decorations of which are said to have been unequalled by any thing hitherto seen at this establishment. Its great and continued popularity must be taken as substantial evidence of its merit as a spectacle.

The Olympiccontinues, in an unpretending way, to increase its reputation as a quiet and well-conducted theatre, where one may find the lighter attractions of the drama admirably presented, by actors who understand their business, supervised by managers who know theirs, and attend to it. It is a capital place wherein to pass a leisure hour agreeably.

Mr. Simmons' Lectures on Elocution.—We have had the gratification, since our last number, of attending a course of lectures upon elocution, given at the 'Stuyvesant Institute,' byWilliam H. Simmons, Esq., of Boston; and we are confident we speak the unanimous opinion of his auditory, among whom were many of our most distinguished citizens, when we say, that for sound reasoning, felicitous manner, and richness of voice, Mr.Simmons'equal has not been heard in this meridian for many a long year. He expounded clearly and analytically the natural laws of vocal expression, according to the method pursued by Dr.Rush, in his 'Philosophy of the Human Voice;' exemplifying, at the same time, the practical effect and application of all the important tones, inflexions, and modes of emphasis, by a variety of readings and recitations, which were invariably received with the liveliest demonstrations of admiration, on the part of his hearers. We sincerely hope that the capable and accomplished lecturer, and we must add orator, also, may find sufficient inducement to deliver a second course; and as there is abundant room for improvement, both in our public and colloquial elocution, we trust, moreover, that the private lessons in his useful and delightful art will be liberally attended. We are glad to learn that he is giving a course of lectures and lessons at the Episcopal Theological Seminary; and that he is about to gratify a large body of young men, engaged in professional studies and mercantile pursuits, by the repetition of his course, at Clinton Hall. Mr.Simmons'address is the Astor-House.

Tokens of the Holidays.—We feel paternal yearnings, when we sit down, as now, by our round-table, to draw around us our great family of readers, that they may admire with us the various gems of art with which it is literally overloaded. Before us, gleaming in gold, crimson, and purple, rich blue and velvet green, and affluent in the finest engravings, are theEnglish Annuals, for 1838, which, with their American brotherhood, will very soon, we venture to predict, collect some of the superfluities of this 'money-voiding town.' Love-tokens are they, for the tasteful swain, and remembrancers from the generous-hearted, to those who stand on the top-scale of their friendship's ladder. Annuals, both foreign and domestic, are every year improving. From 'combinations of show and emptiness,' they have come to be the medium of the highest efforts of art; while green-sick sonnetteers and small tale-writers are succeeded by minds more capable of entertaining the public. We can do little more thancataloguethe rich stores before us.

Finden's Tableaux, in imperial quarto, may be placed first in the list, since it is superb, beyond all former precedent. It is intended to represent the peculiar female beauty of different countries, or provinces, with a characteristic back-ground of scenery, and adjuncts in keeping. 'England,' 'Andalusia,' 'Florence,' 'Egypt,' 'Ceylon,' 'America,' 'Georgia,' 'Scotland,' and 'Castile,' have each their representatives; and what a galaxy of beauty would that court present, which should combine in one assembly these ambassadors of loveliness! The letter-press illustrations, in prose and verse, mainly by MissMitford, we need not say, are worthy the pictorial department, and the reputation of the author of 'Our Village.' The 'Flowers of Loveliness', edited by MissLandon, also in the imperial quarto form, is a very pretty volume, but less beautiful, as it strikes us, than its predecessor. It is dedicated to the Queen, in a clever acrostic upon her name, in four-line stanzas, each verse of which is introduced by an ornamental letter, representing a flower; a pretty and feminine device. Female beauty is made to represent the Clematis, Hyacinth, Water-Lily, Night-blooming Convolvulus, Poppy, Canterbury Cathedral, Pansy, 'Marvel of Peru,' the Laurel, Iris, etc.Heath's Book of Beautycontains thirteen engravings, portraits of several women of nobility, and fancy pictures. Its externals are gorgeous. The binding is of cerulean satin, richly embroidered with thread of changeful golden tissue. It has a few stories, andsome good poetry.Lady Blessingtondoes the editorial honors. 'Children of the Nobility' is a work in the large quarto. The engravings are byHeath, from drawings byChalon. One or two of them are exquisite—the portrait ofLady Mary Howard, for example. There are some pretty children, too, and 'extraordinary ordinary'-looking othersome, with legs like upright nine-pins, and shod hoofs. Edited by Mrs.Fairlie. 'Beauties of Costume'—Heathagain. This is a series of female figures, in the dresses of ancient times—Egyptian, Scottish, Court of Louis XII., Bernese, Milanese, Russian, English Peasant, Swiss, Court of Charles VII., Persian, Scottish Highland, etc. Descriptions byLeitch Ritchie. We can say little for theEnglish Annual. Old plates, which have been served up to the British public in the 'Court Journal,' if we do not mistake, are scarcely worthy of being ushered forth as original embellishments. The 'Oriental' has twenty-two spirited engravings of 'Scenes in India,' many of which are very superior. The name of Rev.Hobart Caunteris a guarantee for the character of the letter-press portion of the work. The London 'Christian Keepsake' is worthy of all praise, both as to matter and embellishments. A portrait of Mrs.Stewart, (wife of Rev.C. S. Stewart, of the American Navy,) late missionary to the Sandwich Islands, from a painting byIngraham, of this city, is one of the gems of the volume.Heath's 'Picturesque Annual' is devoted to 'Scenes in Ireland.' They are well selected, and the engravings are exceedingly soft and clear. The descriptive matter is from the pen ofLeitch Ritchie. Beside these, there are 'Italy, France, and Switzerland,' in two large quarto volumes, the plates byProutandHarding, and the illustrations byThomas Roscoe;Fisher's 'Drawing-Room Scrap-Book,' with its usual quality and quantity of engravings, edited by MissLandon; 'Midland Counties Tourist,' illustrating hoary ruins, romantic castles, and picturesque towns and landscapes, in the counties of Chester, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Rutland, and Lincoln, with descriptions historical and topographical, 'Illustrations of Scotland and the Waverly Novels, etc.Wiley and Putnam, Broadway.

Good out of Evil.—'Selections from the Court Reports, originally published in theBoston Morning Post, from 1834 to 1837. Arranged and Revised by the Reporter of the Post.'—The writer of this work is surely chief of theadeptiin his art, for art it is. He is a prëeminent 'dab' at his business; uniting grace of composition with a keen sense of the humorous, and the reflections of a heart open to the influence of generous emotions, and full of sympathy for the unfortunates, whose abandonment to temptation he records. As contrasting examples of pathos and fun, we would instance the picture of maternal affection, in the story of the three juvenile book-thieves, and the cool knavery of theomnium-gatherumvarlet, whose systematic pilferings were directed by a written programme, as: 'Visit Bailey's Female High School—scrutinize;' 'Get books from library—valuable;' 'Go to the theatre—once;' 'Go to the Museum, night and day;criticise, and get every thing I can;' 'Visit Horticultural Rooms—and get things;' 'Get some pocket-handkerchiefs—gratis,' etc. These 'Selections' will amuse a dull hour passing well. The reader will find the book fruitful of fun or instruction, open it wheresoever he may. Boston:Otis, Broaders and Company.

'The Arethusa.'—Such is the title of a naval story, in two volumes, by CaptainChamier, R. N., author of 'Ben Brace,' 'Life of a Sailor,' etc. In our judgment, it is his best work. If not as a whole, certainly in particular scenes it has not been surpassed by any previous effort of the author. The wreck of the Tribune, the naval warfare, the pestilence at Jamaica, and many other detached scenes, which might be mentioned, are most vividly portrayed. We would counsel Captain Chamier, however, not to meddle with character of which he knows nothing more than may be conveyed in the terms, 'I reckon,' 'I guess,' and 'I calculate,' in endless iteration. His 'Corncob' is an imaginary anomaly, and has no counterpart in America. Philadelphia;E. L. Carey and A. Hart. New-York:Wiley and Putnam.

'Reviewers Reviewed:'—by the Author of 'Pelayo.'—This is a little volume of seventy-two pages—dedication, introduction, argument, text, notes, and appendix, all counted—and is facetiously denominated by the young lady-author a 'Satire.' The editors of the 'Courier,' 'Gazette,' 'Commercial,' and 'Mirror' journals, together with theKnickerbocker, are the victims—because they could not admire 'Pelayo.' For our own poor part, the force of the attack has stunned us. We know not what to say. Also, we wist not what to do. 'Where,' (to adopt the kindred language of our fair satirist's illustrious archetype, 'Rosa Matilda,')

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