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however, does not apply in all cases to sleep, because the most healthy often rattle and snore loudly in their soundest slumbers. The pulse must be slow, full, strong, uniform, and invariable, even though the body be subjected to those changes, which, in weaker persons, produce great alterations of the pulses. Hence the purchasers of slaves were accustomed to count the number of their inspirations and pulsations in a minute; after which they made them run, and then took notice whether the rapidity of those functions was much accelerated. He who can stand this test may congratulate himself on the strength of his constitution and health; for among the infirm and sickly there are many who cannot turn in bed without producing an alteration of pulsation. It is an indication that the digestive powers are strong, when the natural evacuations do not take place too often, and the body is not too much relaxed for this proves that the food is duly elaborated. On the con: trary, the more weakly a person is, the more frequent are those evacuations, the fuller and the more uneasy his stomach feels after meals, and the more difficult is his digestion. It is not uncommon to hear hearty old people make the observation, that they never could tell where their stomach lay; and this is a sign of excellent health. sleep of the healthy is sound as death, but refreshing and invigorating. Such a one performs the severest labour without fatigue; all the energies of nature are poured into his muscles; but his head, on the other hand, too commonly remains empty. Strong healthy people are rarely found among those gifted with great talents, and those who have attained extraordinary longevity have seldom puzzled their brains with abstruse subjects.


Such is the standard by which the reader may judge whether he possesses a great degree of natural health. On this point our own sensations are the best instructors. We are in good health when we feel well after an abundant meal; if we can breathe with freedom five or six hours after the repast, when the chyle mingles with the blood; if we do not perceive that one part of the body is heavier or less alert than another for these are symptoms of an unobstructed circulation in the whole. It is well when all the solid parts are firm, elastic, wellformed, and duly proportioned, and when all the corporeal functions are readily and easily performed. It is well when all the juices are properly mixed, duly secreted, and carried into the circulation for the nourishment of the body, and when the surplus passes off at the right time. It is well when no part has any pecuilar feeling of pain, heat, or cold; in short, when violent exercise may be taken without our experiencing inconvenience. It is well when we do not find the lessons of prudence burdensome; and still better when we have no violent passions or propensities to contend with. As moths consume a garment, so do strong passions consume the body, and urge the blood and heart to an unnatural celerity of motion.

The blessing here described is a gift of Nature; but still so much is certain, that our parents on the one hand, and those who are intrusted with our education in early youth on the other, have it in their power to contribute materially to procure us health and bodily vigour. There are persons who, merely by constant exercise, have acquired almost superhuman power; but the groundwork of them must have been laid by Nature.

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It was a comfortable and refreshing thing to a lover of the drama, to hear it whispered that the English players had arrived in Paris. After the purgatory of the Français and the Odeon-after seasons of unnatural recitation and passion-tattering bombast, artificial action, and ear-splitting rhodomontade, which Talma and Duchesnois alone can make endurable-after seeing Shakspeare masquerading in the parodies of Ducis, and Otway pilloried and pilfered in the clumsy imitation of La Fosse d'Aubigny-it was like a gushing spring in the desert to mark the announcement of Othello in his own original form, to be represented at the Porte St. Martin by real flesh-and-blood Englishmen and Englishwomen. I fastened my eyes upon the play-bill, and stuck myself almost as close to it as it was to the wall, while I read it over and over again.


High as I had felt my confidence, which a moment before was plumed by the very wings of Shakspeare's fame, and seemed soaring far above each poor impediment, a cold shivering seized upon me at the sight of the names in the bill. "Othello by Mr. Barton!-who the deuce is Mr. Barton ?" cried I, suddenly slapping my forehead, as if to rouse my reminiscences. "Monsieur, me parle-t-il?" asked "a periwig-pated fellow" beside me, who was gaping at the play-bill, and who thought I had addressed him. "It can't be Bernard Barton, the quaker poet!" continued I, unmindful of my neighbour, and seizing my chin as if memory had changed its throne and lodged itself in that "beaked promontory." "Poëte!" echoed the man; "Sacre bleu ! Je crois bien que vous en êtes un." "No, no; impossible!" exclaimed I, following the chain of my abstraction. "Si, si! J'en suis sûr," cried my tormentor; 66 au moins, si vous n'êtes pas Poëte, vous êtes Fou. C'est la méme chose, n'est ce pas?" "Fou!" called I indignantly, and I was very near changing the word to a dissyllable, when, looking round me, I saw a malicious grin on the faces by which I was environed. There seemed a disposition to insult, and two or three "Goddems" were muttered close to me. I pretended unconcern, but was not unmoved by these symptoms; for, after a moment's pause, and a parting glance at the play-bill, I walked out of the group, and turned down a bye street from the Boulevard. As I got round the corner I heard Poëte, Anglais, and Goddem, murmured, half at me and half to each other, by the knot I left, and I was not sorry to effect my retreat so quietly.

This little interruption to the flow of my feelings was soon forgotten. It was five o'clock, and the savoury smell from a Restaurat reminded me of a duty to perform. I accordingly walked in, and placing myself at a table, I consulted the carte. I was all English at this moment. I never felt so national. The spirit of Shakspeare seemed thrilling through my veins, and I proudly anticipated his approaching triumph. "Quelle soupe, Monsieur?" asked the waiter. "Point de soupe, ni des grenouilles," replied I surlily-John Bullishly; "donnez moi un bifteck aux pommes de terre." I was resolved to have as good an imitation of an English dinner as the place afforded. The beef

steak, such as it was, being despatched, I next called for "Rosbif;" and the slender portion which they gave me of that being also quickly disposed of, I ran my eye over the carte for some other English dish. But I saw nothing else, except ragouts and fricassees, and soufflés and omelettes, and the like; and I therefore wound up my repast with a bottle of porter de Londres, and a slice of fromage de Chichester (the French for Cheshire cheese), and I felt myself fittingly prepared for a front row in the pit, to witness the representation of Shakspeare's master-piece.

Away I went, then, towards the Porte St. Martin, and whenever I reflected on the appalling names of Messrs. Barton, Fenton, and the rest, I consoled myself with the recollection, that when I first saw Kean he was playing in a country-town at a guinea a week, not a bit more considered than the rest of his company—

"Peel'd, patch'd, and pie-bald, linsey-woolsey brothers,
Grave mummers, sleeveless some and shirtless others."

Who knows, thought I, but these unheard-of heroes may be yet destined to fill the broad end of Fame's trump; to revive the glories of Garrick, and throw Kemble and Young in the shade? I encouraged the feeling I remembered that

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and I hoped that I was going to gaze on a theatrical constellation, which had only hitherto escaped the observation of the astronomers.

As I advanced along the Boulevard towards the Porte St. Martin, the number of persons coming in the opposite direction surprised me not a little; for I did not calculate on any great attention being excited towards the English play. Approaching the theatre, the crowd was immense. A double line of carriages stretched far down the Boulevard; hundreds of pedestrians blocked up every avenue; and a strong force of gendarmerie, horse and foot, occupied the position. Not being a resident of Paris, and only having come to town that evening, I could not divine the meaning of all this "dreadful note of preparation;" so I set myself to enquire from some of the by-standers what it was all about. I soon learned that for two or three preceding days a notion had run that the national pride was concerned, and the national glory compromised by the appearance of the English players. It was thought that they were particularly patronized by the Court; and that was of itself enough to make them unpopular. An infamous report had been spread that the French actors in London had been treated with indignity, and even with violence. A certain set of writers had fostered this calumny in the journals; and a desperate cabal had been formed among the students of law, physic, etcetera (which comprehensive word, be it known, is not here meant to include divinity nor the other arts), to oppose, put down, and annihilate this attempted performance of English plays, designated by one of the Journals a "malheureuse innovation." Dark threats of vengeance against the English generally were muttered all through Paris. Precautions were consequently taken. The armed force at the Theatre was trebled; the Commissary of Police in that quarter was replaced by a magistrate of well-known vigour; and measures were resolved on for staring the danger in the face.

My anxiety to get in was redoubled at this information. I had known the French well, as I thought, for several years, and I offered to stake my head that nothing ungenerous, inhospitable, or unmanly, would be seen that night in the theatre. Luckily for me, none of the by-standers took me at my word, or I might have been at this mo


"A headless carcase and a nameless thing;"

my spirit wandering in the Shades, like the fellow encountered there by Dante with his tête under his arm, lighting him along in place of a lantern. But I must not anticipate. To gain entrance was impossible: hundreds were turned away, after manifold efforts of persuasion and force; carriages, filled with fashionably dressed females, retrograded from their stations; powdered old beaux and perfumed young dandies, whiskered Liberals and curled Aristocrats—all were driven back unsatisfied. The house was chuck full.

A thought struck me. I espied a mud-bespattered tatterdemalion, whose vocation I instantly discovered in his phiz, for there was a deepknit frown upon his brow and a comic twist about his mouth, that spoke the varying shades from tragedy to comedy so natural in a scene-shifter's boy. "Him I approached," as Milton says; and I very soon made him understand my desire of being guided to the private door which served as the actors' entrance. Straightway darting through the crowd, he led me by a narrow entrance, and sundry devious passages, down steps of stairs, up others, through subterranean twinings, where hung an occasional solitary lamp, which, were not the quotation rather hackneyed, I should say, but served to "make darkness visible.” At last we emerged into a narrow street at the back of the theatre, and my conductor brought me full plump against the door in whose hospitable reception all my hopes of admission were centered. A very surly Cerbera (if I may be allowed the term) received me she had been worried to distraction by scores of applications such as she anticipated from me, and "Monsieur, c'est impossible," was her growling commencement of the negotiation which I should have begun. Being a man of few words, I simply held up a five franc piece. Her honour was touched; she looked daggers at me, and was on the point of slamming the door in my face, when I begged of her to procure me admission to the English manager. "Quoi? à Monsieur Penley ?-Sacre! Peste! Quelle idée-et lui sur la scene? Voir Monsieur Penley! Diable!!!" "Mr. Penley!" echoed I; "is that the manager's name? And his daughters-are they here?" "Lisez l'affiche," grumbled she. I turned round and saw a play-bill, which I began incontinent to peruse; and there, to my great delight, I read (skipping hastily over the firm of Barton, Fenton, and Co.)

Desdemona, by Miss Rosina Penley.

Emilia, by Miss Penley.

This is good luck, indeed, thought I; and indeed it was so. I took out a card, and looking round me for a trusty messenger, a little fellow with knowing glance, frizzled pate, a comb behind his ear, and a wig under his arm, caught my attention. I had experience enough of stage trick to know the importance of the hair-dresser, and to divine that this was the powdered personage who filled that station at the Theatre de la Porte St. Martin. "C'est bon," thought I, and it was good. He

took my card and my message; sprang from me, darted up the narrow, spiral, precipitous ascent yclept the actors' stairs, and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. It would be vain to tell the rush of recollection which I experienced while he was away :-the number of adventures that I ran over in my memory, in about six minutes, of all that had occurred in a space of as many years :-the numerous friends I brought to mind: their scattered destinies and various fortunes. What a rapid casting up of my long account with Time!

I was roused from my reverie by the rustling of silk. A light step came rapidly patting down the stairs. The little door at the bottom flew open; and Desdemona and Emilia both appeared, to answer the summons of their old acquaintance, and bear him aloft between them, maugre the growling, grumbling, and grinning of the she-fury at the door. I was soon on the boards, in the midst of a crowd of persons belonging to the theatre, mixed with a plentiful sprinkling of gensd'armes, and a few strangers like myself. The noise in front was prodigious. I peeped through a hole in the curtain, and saw by far the most crowded house I had ever beheld. The cries of disapprobation and the gestures of the shouters seemed all directed against one of the side-boxes; and the name of Martainville was vociferated, with a running accompaniment of abuse and execration that beggars description. This individual so obnoxious to public disapproval is, I was told, the editor of a journal which advocated strongly the cause of the English players, and was, on that account, mixed with political motives, in any thing but odour with the audience. "This augurs ill," thought I, " for Shakspeare and Othello. But never mind. I stake my head, I do, on French urbanity!"

Three tremendous thumps, inflicted on the stage by a man with a weapon resembling a paver's mallet, was the signal for the raising of the curtain. Every one around me fled from the stage, and I, carried with the current, was deposited snugly in a most comfortable corner in the side scenes, close to the stage. As the play began, my heart throbbed high. The credit of England and of Shakspeare seemed at stake. But how much more the character of France! On this night's conduct hung all the national claim to pre-eminence in civilization, in courtesy, and candour. The audience soon severed the slender thread by which these pretensions were suspended. The moment the play began, the uproar of the spectators commenced. Interruption, insult, and outrage were volleyed forth. Not a word could be distinguished on the stage; and in the body of the house it was "confusion worse confounded.' Desdemona at length appeared. "Now, now," cried I," the interruption is at an end. Now for French gallantry; now for the victory of real politeness over momentary excitement and national prejudice!" And there was an instant's calm; but not the calm of gentle blood or honest shame. The fact was, that the ance of Rosina Penley, so interesting, so lady-looking, so composed, and yet so resolute withall, struck the observers with astonishment, and produced a brief propriety. "The rabblement hooted, clapped their chopt hands, and uttered a deal of stinking breath;"--but Coriolanus himself never gave a look of more quiet unconcern upon his ruffian constituents than did the heroine of to-night upon hers. They hearkened; but it was only a momentary gleam of decency. The sweet

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