THE NATIONAL REGISTER. DRAMATIC DETECTOR. No. VII. A ?assess!. STATE OF TUE FIIENCII DRAMA. what are our sensations, when in the midst of our modern beauties, arrayed iu all the easy elegance of wallow, we behold a stiff antiquated dame. whose eves now dwell with complaceney on the enormous swelling of her hoop, now glance cantemptuously at the light airy vestments of our belles! Her ridiculous appearance awakens a smile, and her haughty scorn of our taste calls for pity at her blindness. We then think that all those who tread the fields of society might to conform them selves to the si:es established there, nor display the stubbornness of private opinion, in direct opposition to the sense of the com munity. If we pry w ith the glass of observation into the re gions of modern literature, we shall be struck with a contrast equally conspicuous, the result of self-conceit heightened by na tional vanity. Whilst nature now and then reveals herself naked to our view on the British Stage, and obedient to the tali-man which she entrusted to her favourite bard, always at tends at the representation of his dramas,we perceive at a distance the French tragic Muse, wrapped in assamed majesty, stalking disdainful of all the native graces of simplicity, stiff with affec tation, and mistaking the language of art for the expression of real passion. The genius of Imitation has kindled his torch in vain, to guide our neighbours through the difficulties of dramatic composition. Ilk light has proved an ignis plans that led them into error. They fancied that the Greek poets had exhausted passion and sentiment ; in their works alone, therefore, they looked for models and subjects, and not In the unbounded extent of mental and material creation. The unity of time, place, and action, %%hick certainly never found in nature, they deter mined strictly to observe ; in order, they tell us, to inflict no wound on probability. This reasoning would hold good, and Aristotle's rules would d;-er we compliance, were the means pro posed adequate to the end he had in view. But who %vould at tempt to cure insanity with remedies capable of shaking the stout est foundations of human intellect, and produciug that dread ful disorder the soul ? Who, therefore, can reasonably expect to increase the probability of a fact, by an actual violation of probability itself, in the manner of relating or representing it? Yet the French are so bigotted in their Dramatic creed, if such an expression may be used, that any author, who in a tragedy would remove the scene of action from the vestibule to the in tenor of a palace, a mighty distance! would meet with instant coudemnation. In serious comedy they are equally strict; hut in meld-dramas and Vaudevilles they allow themselves more la titude, and suffer the scene to be altered at the beginning of every act. Deprived of all the brilliancy of changing scenery, the play must rest for success on its own merit and the exertions of the actors, and from this very necessity for eminence of talent in the authors and actors, springs their inferiority to ours. The for mer study not nature, tile language of which is irregular and unla boured as its thoughts, but a faultless correctness of diction, cold when it should be simple, and bombastic when it should be warm. Unable to display a great and powerful variety of sen timents and passions, o hick alone could subdue the soul, since the organs through which it commonly receives its perceptions, ate little affected by theatrical pomp, they crowd their per formances with heroes, kings, queens, and warriors, and sedu lously avoid whatever savours of common life, fully persuaded that the mind accustomed to the ordinary incidents of life re quirks higher and more important events to captivate closely her attention and awaken strong sensations of pleasure, pity or terror. The actors, equally unassisted by the magical decep tions of the stage, find themselves compelled, by the multiplicity of their geitures, and the loudness of their tones, to give life to the cold and de ficient passages with which their parts abound, and in order that the difference of situations and passions may be perceived, to vociferate with increased vehemence and more extravagant gesticulations those, that merely require animation. It is not astonishing therefore, that to every Englishman who has lately witnessed the chaste, judicious, and energetic per formance of a Kemble and a Siddons, the actors most highly approved on the French stage, should seem to overstep the modesty of nature, or rather to express love, revenge and am bition, as ours v ould madness. A proof that they are indebted to their authors for the inferiority of their merits (ts hen com pared with those of our performers, for candour obliges us to allot that some of them possess eminent talents which they de grade by sacrificing to the bad taste of the public), is that in the lower theatres, such as Louuubt, now Theatre de l'lmpera tries, the Thcatro tis l'Opera Cvmigue, and Comique, AUGUST 7. where plays are performed, in which the three unities are not so strictly observed, we meet with actors greatly superior to the former in the easy delineation of nature, though perk pg endowed with a genius of a humbler cast. Lauvois is mostly supplied with pieces by one of the best comedians in France, M. Picard. who like his great predecessor Moliere, and ioir English translator Mr. C. Kemble, always acts in the dramas which he has composed. His productions display a cultivated, elegant and judicious mind, wit chaste and refined, a consi derable share of inventive ingenuity in the contrivaore of his plots, and of facility in painting characters. His Mediocre a Rampant ranks high in the estimation of his countrymen; hi s Voyageurs has, we believe, appeared on the English. sta t: e un • der a different name, and hts Fifirs a Merrier, one of his lateq compositions, an entertainment in three acts, is full of simplicity and unaffected Wit. He is the author of several other pieces WI) numerous to be mentioned here. It was at this theatre that about six years ago, the farce of Plot and Counterplot made its appearance under the title of Le Portrait de Michel Cer vantes. The writer of this article was present at the first re presentation of this amusing afterpiece, w hick though severely censured by the French Newspaper Critics of the time, on ac count of the intricacy of its plot, met with a very favourable reception. The translation given by Mt. C. Kemble is f a ithf u l, but the scene hetw een the two supposed dead bodies, being a little altered, did not strike us with the same effect as the original. L'Opera Comique presents a still livelier scene. There, th e y now and then indulge in what the French call, des ehea:gemcac a vete, or changes of scenery executed without lowering the curtain. For in all the Parisian theatres, the Great Opera, or Academie Imperials de Musique, and the Opera Comips except ed, the curtain always falls when any change of scenery is about to take place. This must be understood to apply only to tho , e theatres in which such a gross violation of the rules of 4ri.totle is tolerated. The singers in this house are, in general, good, though certainly very deficient in taste and execution, if we put them in comparison w ith our Braham and Billingion. L'Ambigu Cotnique is the fertile ground from whence our modern ant hors plucked all the melodramatic plants which hay , - of late flourished on our London stages. liere sse meet with the original; of Telerti, The Wife with Two flusban:is, The Nor. tress, The Young Hussar, and many others, the names of which have escaped our memory. It is here a (took found invention and harmless wit, which he improved into indecent double entendres. It is whilst reading the productions of time numberless bards, who write for this theatre, that his partiality for escapes first unfolded itself ; and as we have no doubt of his being desirous, perhaps, through the force of habit, to imitate his heroes, and also effect his escape from the lash of deserved criticism, we will indulge him this time, and defer the continuation of our remarks on the French and English stage till a future opportu nity. • LUDICROUS STORY OF MR. C-KE. One evening in Manchester, we were in a public bar a midst a promiscuous company, where C—ke was, as usual the lire of the party. Mirth and good humour prevailed till about Tyr, o clock, when I perceived something lurking in his eye, ‘I Heft foretold a storm. Anxious to get him home before it bunt forth, I pressed our departure, under the plea of another en gagement ; but, 'instead of having the desired efiect, it precipi. tared what I had foreseen. With a haughty supercilious look, he said— " I see what you are about, you hypocritical scoundrel! You canting methodical thief! am 1, C—ke, to be controuled by such a would-be puritan as you ? I'll teach you to dictate to a tragedian." Then pulling off his coat, and holding his list in a menacing attitude—" Come out," continued he, " thou prince of deceivers; though thou bast faith to remove mountains, thou shalt not remove me.,--Come out, I say." With much diffi culty he was pacified, and resumed bis coat —There was a large tire in the bar, before which stood, with his coat skirts under each arm, a pitiful buck, very deficient in cleanliness and cos tome. His face was grimy, and his neckcloth of the salty tinct, which nevertheless, was folded in various folds about his throat his hair was matted, and turned up, under a round greasy hat, with narrow brims, conceitedly placed on one side the head, which notidled under it, like a shaking mandarin. Thus equip• pelf, the filthy fop straddled before the fire, which he completely monopolized. At length he caught the eye of our tragedianl, who, in silent amazement for the space of h alf a minor, evi* mined him from top to toe; then turning to me, he burst forth • • • • t t '9 1 1 r f 1