and Pierron, in an episodic and somewhat canaille part, after making his audience heartily wish him hanged, drawn, and quartered, for his rascality, during four acts, comes out in the fifth with a few genuine touches of pathos, which bring the sobs and pocket-handkerchiefs of the sensitive into full play. Two or three weeks ago a considerable scandale was caused in the coulisses of the Théâtre Français, by a quarrel between B, the Bolingbroke of "Le Verre d'Eau," and R- the brother of younger , a celebrated tragic actress. A version of the affair found its way into one or two of the newspapers; but many of the particulars given were either partially incorrect, or altogether apocryphal. The real facts are as follows: After 66 a wordy war" of some minutes, B—so far forgot himself as to give his youthful opponent a most unmistakable box on the ear; as a necessary consequence, the preliminary arrangements for a meeting on the following day were made forthwith, and seconds chosen. La nuit, however, porte conseil; and B—, possibly thinking he had gone too far, sent one of his témoins to his adversary early next morning with a letter of apology. R, after carefully perusing the missive, observed that B would find him in the Bois de Boulogne at the appointed hour, and declined giving any further answer. Both parties were punctual at the rendezvous; and on the appearance of his antagonist, R, stepping forward hat in hand, thus addressed him:: : "I have received your letter, monsieur, and am perfectly disposed to accept the apology you offer me, neither wishing to kill you or be killed by you; but I have first a question to ask you. Were you in my place, would you after a similar affront consider yourself satisfied with a similar excuse, or not ?" "Mais oui," answered B "You are quite certain ?" "Quite." "Enchanté de l'apprendre," replied R, at the same time administering to Bolingbroke a vigorous soufflet with one hand, and with the other presenting him with a copy of his own letter. B- furious at this unexpected attack, insisted on an immediate appeal to arms; the seconds, however, unanimously refused to allow the matter to proceed further, and little R- marched away with flying colours. A son of Amédée de Beauplan, the clever vaudevilliste and musical composer, lately acquired a somewhat questionable notoriety as author of a most indelicate little piece, or rather scene, which lost none of its licence by being performed at the Vaudeville by Mademoiselle Cico. Its title, "Suzanne au Bain," attracted a large audience to witness the first representation; the details and allusions, however, notwithstanding the prover bial good humour of a Parisian public, were trop peu gazés to escape censure, and the curtain fell amid general disapprobation. Next day the managers received an intimation from the procureur de la république, that the piece, although announced in the bills for repetition, must, on the score of its indecency, be withdrawn. The affiche was accordingly altered, but so late in the day that few persons present that evening in the theatre were aware of the change; and great was the disappointment of a mem ber of the Assembly, who had taken a stall expressly to see "Suzanne," when informed of the prohibition. "Je suis volé!" he exclaimed-" volé comme dans un bois. Je ne suis venu que pour voir Cico nue-si connue !” Another novelty, and of a very different order of merit, is now exciting a marvellous furore at the same theatre. I allude to the fourth number of "La Foire aux Idées." As a French critic justly remarked, the authors of this clever series had, in the preceding numbers, contented themselves with inflicting skin-deep scratches on the objects of their satire; but in No. 4 the rouge party is literally flayed alive. What remains to be said in No. 5 is to me a puzzle, for the present highly réal piece seems to have exhausted the vocabulary of abuse in its unmerciful hits against everything republican; as for the members of the provisional government, Marrast en tête, it does not leave them a leg to stand on. Every couplet (and there are about fifty of them) has its point, and a pretty sharp one too; and I am bound to say that the actors exert themselves gallantly to make them tell. I would not wish a democ soc. (if he were a personal enemy of my own) a more disagreeable task than to be forced to listen either to Ambroise anathematising Messieurs les homards, and extorting an universal bis by his energetic delivery of the last line in the couplet final, La societé se defend, et n' meurt pas, or to Lecourt burlesquing the républicains du lendemain with Nous n'avons eu personne à vaincre, Ce qui fait que nous somm's de grands vainqueurs,— or even to Henri Potier's pretty air, "Soc, soc, et démoc," and its accompanying "Sauvajeska," a Mabilleian pas contrasting the utter chocnosophes attitudes of Mademoiselle Cico with the unassuming grace and gentillesse of Madame Clary. ¿THE elastic "ens rationis," to which dramatic philosophers give the name of "theatrical activity," after remaining pent up so long that we feared its elasticity would be destroyed altogether, has freed itself at last, with such an impulse, with such a rapid spirit of production, that the part of our brain devoted to the drama has during the latter portion of October been kept in a constant whirl. In the first place, there has been Mr. Macready's appearance at the Haymarket, on the occasion of which John Bull determined to make up by enthusiasm for Brother Jonathan's deficiencies in good manners. When we say that there was something really "Lindish" in his reception, we shall give the best expression to represent vivid, hats and animated pocket-handkerchiefs. When we add that for many nights he played nothing but Macbeth and Hamlet, and that these performances drew crowded houses, we show show that his success is as solid as it is brilliant. At the New Strand Theatre, which now takes a prominent place among the Westminster establishments, Mrs. Stirling, whom we praised in general terms last month, has made a decided step in her profession, by the impersonation of a character in which Mademoiselle Rachel created a Parisian furore last April. This character is Adrienne Lecouvreur, a French actress, poisoned in the last century by a lady of quality, whom she rivalled in the affections of Marshal Saxe. The suppressed storms of jealousy, and the agonies of a painful death, are represented with an union of force and careful elaboration, which few of our present actresses could attain. The version of "Adrienne Lecouvreur," which has served as a vehicle for this admirable histrionic display, has been made by Mr. John Oxenford, and is called the " Reigning Favourite.” At Sadler's Wells another lady, of position far less established than Mrs. Stirling, has likewise made an important advance. Miss Glyn's performance of the Queen of Egypt, in Shakspeare's "Antony and Cleopatra," is not only distinguished by that sedulous gesticulation which she has often carried to an extreme, but is animated with an impulsive fire for which we by no means gave her credit. It seems as if the real spirit at last moved freely, in spite of a severe discipline, not bursting the fetters, but carrying them with facility. We really now begin to entertain great hopes of Miss Glyn. The play, which has been dragged from the shelf by Mr. Phelps, has been put on the stage in most superb style. It is a grand moving picture of ancient Egyptian and Roman life. At the Surrey we find symptoms of that desire to rise into something of literary dramatic importance, which has been so laudably displayed at Sadler's Wells and the Marylebone, and which promises to convert the old dramatic monarchy of Westminster into a federal system that shall embrace the suburbs. Mr. Creswick, an actor of considerable merit, has placed himself at the head of this southern movement; and Messrs. Bernard and Marston, two of our best dramatists, have furnished the establishment with a domestic play, called "Trevanion,” which has proved highly successful. The "legitimate" business goes on at the Marylebone, and will go on till Christmas brings Mr. Watts and his company to the Olympic, that is now rising like a Phoenix from its ashes, to the edification of all who go through that delightful thoroughfare Wych Street. Mrs. Mowatt is still the heroine, choosing Shakspeare's comedies as her sphere of action, and winning all hearts by the grace and beauty (mental and personal) with which she endows Beatrice and Rosalind. The Adelphian wags have found matter for imitation in the famous pas des patineurs, which our friend Lumley first exhibited to the London public, and a sprightly farce by Mr. Stirling Coyne terminates brilliantly with the skating scene, which is transferred from the Danube to the not less renowned lake in the Surrey Zoological Gardens. The Lyceum has scarcely yet put out its strength, though we have a very clever farce, by Mr. Bernard, called "A Practical Man," in which a fidgety, irresolute gentleman is played, as no one else can play such a part, by Mr. Charles Mathews. "Don Giovanni” At the Princess's opera remains the staple article. has been done in very creditable style; and a young English singer, named Louisa Pyne, has not only made a successful début as Zerlina, but has created some sensation in Bellini "Sonnambula." Her chief attributes are purity of style and faultlessness of intonation. Pon LITERATURE. THE OGILVIES.* THIS is at once a passionate and a philosophical love story-apparently the first work of its author. Its very faults, as well as its beauties, attest to its being penned by a female hand. That Katherine Ogilvie, a romantic girl of sixteen, should, on her first entrance into the world, discard a good-humoured sporting cousin for the impersonation of poor Keats in a certain Paul Lynedon, is by no means improbable; but in this case the amount of passion awakened in the young girl by this man of clear brown complexion, and calm, contemplative eyes, exceeds probabilities, while the manner in which Paul is described as ever "shaking back his beautiful hair" betrays the authoress. The success with which the more minute characteristics of the man are afterwards eliminated-his total want of that greatest of all attributes, truth to himself and to nature-his unpardonable weakness in trifling with young Katherine's affections at the time that he is attached to her cousin—his reawakened and guilty passion for Katherine when a woman and a wife-all swamped in one great and simultaneous climax-marriage and death-more than repay, however, in their transcendent and highly-wrought beauty, any slight deficiencies at the onset. The story of the loves-no less powerful, but better regulated-of Eleanor Ogilvie and of Philip Wychnor, is an admirable antithesis to the preceding Romeo and Juliet affair. A description oft done before, that of a cathedral close and its population of deans, canons, deacons, and their wives and widows and daughters, so formal, so select, so prostrate before the paganism of conventional propriety, introduces us to this true and loving couple, and a harsh, uncompromising aunt, Mrs. Breynton, who is at the bottom of much future suffering, and who so far forgets the immaculate propriety of the close as to purloin and read lovers' letters. Philip, however, entails misery on himself and his love by refusing, on principle, to enter upon the career opened to him by previous expenses incurred in his education, and by other advantages secured to him, because he does not feel a call to the ministry. Few will sympathise with the lover in this heroism of principle. If not good enough, he ought to have sought to have made himself so. Eleanor, in abetting him in this ecstatic refinement, makes all the sacrifices come from herself. He makes none; yet the nobility of soul that could yearn for nothing but truth and wisdom and justice in works of intellect and imagination—a career to which Philip, seceding from the church, is fain to devote himself-surely demands some of those elements of thought and attributes of mind which might as well have fitted their possessor to the ministry of Christ as to that of man. These are grave inconsistencies in working out so serious a problem as the heroism which underlies the common forms of life. The authoress herself, in one of her best philosophical moods, advocates the right of love in earnest language - Most writers on the subject are (she says), we think, somewhat in the wrong. * The Ogilvies. A Novel, in 3 vols. Chapman and Hall. They never consider that love is duty-a most solemn and holy duty! He who, loving and being beloved, takes upon himself this second life, this glad burden of another's happiness, has no right to sacrifice it for any other human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self-devotion of the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work out the happiness of some lovelorn sister, gives up the chosen of her heart, whose heart's chosen she knows herself to be. And the man who, rather than make a loving woman a little poorer in worldly wealth-but oh, how rich in affection!— proudly conceals his love in his own breast, and will not utter it—he is deemed a self-denying hero! Is this right? You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies sacrifices such as these, what would you say if for any cause under Heaven a wife gave up a husband, or a husband a wife, each dooming the other to suffering worse than death? And is the tie between two hearts knitted together by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the altar-vow than after it? This is a noble vindication of the rights of love, and exhibits to great advantage the author's capacity, manifest throughout, of placing feelings and acts alike in their proper position; looking at them in the nakedness of truth, discarding all that is conventional and artificial, and guiding her judgment solely by the elementary tests of conscience and nature. Philip, however, not acting exactly as he ought, had he considered the breaking of the bond of love a sin, even though no consecrated ordinance had rendered the actual perjury visible guilt, is devoted to a life of hard struggles, first as tutor to the son of an unfortunate editor, who appears to be brought in for the sake of some secret personality, and next as a writer himself, a frequenter of the British Museum, and a friend of Dr. Drysdale, in whose company he learns to write out of his own soul, and not for the approbation of any particular set or coterie. It is needless to say that the author has not ventured upon such an incredible legend as to state that Philip was enabled by his writing to earn Eleanor for his wife; no, that is accomplished more intelligibly by a sub-dean bequeathing to her some 60007. Eleanor was, at the time that this fortunate legacy came, abroad, and-what between her aunt's delinquency and an incorrect representation which had been made to Philip of her former relation with Paul Lynedon-her return is only followed by estrangement and by a series of mistakes which seem so easy to remedy, as to inflict “delightful torture" on the novel-reader. That the result to these pure hearts and minds is happiness, we need not say, but, before that is attained, the sickness of hope deferred, and the agony of a guileless soul's suffering from unjust aspersions, are told in what decidedly constitute the most forcible passages and most touching pages of the work. The impression left at the conclusion is that of remarkable power on the part of the authorgreat capacity for intensity of feeling-high intellectual attributes-discrimination alike in the internal and external world-and an earnest rather than a subtle imagination -a mind more given to emotion and impulse than to niceties or novelties of detail, plot, or construction. THE CAXTONS.* "REGARDED as a novel," says Sir E. Bulwer Lytton in his preface, "this attempt is an experiment, somewhat apart from any previous work of the author: it is the first in which humour has been employed less for *The Caxtons; a Family Picture. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart. 3 vols William Blackwood and Sons. |