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and the playful poignaney of the other. But 
they had their day. New manners, new 
feelings, new modes of thinking, and new 
styles of being pleased or pained, have su- 
perseded those of the day of Colman and 
Sheridan. Their plays are now worn out ; 
their plots have been repeated in a thousand 
forms, until they are worn out too. Their 
wit has transpired in the shape of so many 
old stories, that it is identified with the tire- 
some old gentlemen who tell them, and 
who protest that since mankind left off tie- 
wigs and cocked hats the world has gone to 
ruin. The “Clandestine Marriage’ and 
the “School for Scandal,” are now old- 
fashioned. Their pleasantries are stiff; 
their burlesques of life burlesques of a life 
that has no examples among us, and even 
the brilliant Charles now appears a good 
deal of a vulgar rake, and the dexterous 
Joseph but a bad imitation of a relapsed 
quaker. 
There has not been in the whole year 
any one original performance on the stage. 
“Pon Pedro,” a tragedy, by Lord Por- 
chester, being the only one that pretended 
to originality, and being, though the pro- 
duction of an accomplished and intelligent 
young noblemen, not fitted to last beyond 
its first half hour. There has been no ori- 
ginal comedy ; no opera; no farce; even no 
melo-drama. France has given her little 
nerveless performances to be rendered more 
nerveless by being pulled to pieces and flung 
together in the literary cauldron, to re-ap- 
pear moulded into some awkward shape of 
English drama. But failure has set its seal 
upon all; and soit must be, until the genius 
of the country be induced to turn its vigour 
to the drama. 
The Haymarket Theatre has already 
opened, with a good company. Several of 
the public favourites of the last year are 
missing from the list : but this ‘is the natu- 
ral result of their success at this theatre. 
The humble country actor, transferred to 
London, becomes, if a favourite, a formi- 
dable being to manage. The emoluments 
of these small summer theatres, which were 
once opulence to him, become trivial in his 
opened eyes, and he, like other gentlemen, 
scorns town at midsummer, and flies to the 
delights of a circuit through the country. 
No one can blame the fortunate members of 
a profession so ephemeral for making all the 
money they can in as short a time as they 
can. But the result is, that the summer 
theatres lose their most effective actors, 
and are compelled to drill a new tribe into 
fame. 
Among the débutantes is Miss Barto- 
lozzi, the sister of Vestris, and with some 
resemblance in voice and countenance to 
this clever and lively actress. Her figure is 
feminine and graceful, but she is impeded 
a good deal by the embarrassment of a first 
trial. Her voice is powerful, and evidently 
taught by Italian rules. But she will re- 
Monthly Theatrical Report. 
[JuLy, 
quire practice to give her facility and the 
habit of the stage, to allow of the full de- 
velopment of her powers. 
The house has been considerably altered 
in its appearance; the projections of the 
boxes are taken away, and the whole range 
of boxes and gallery richly decorated. The 
coup-d’eil is handsome, 2nd, with a better 
drop-scene and a better orchestra, both of 
which the enterprizing and active manager 
can so easily supply, nothing will be wanting 
to the usual and deserved popularity of this 
lively theatre. 
The prominent theatrical event of the 
month has been the appearance of Made- 
moiselle Mars at the King’s Theatre, turned 
from an Jialienne into a Francaise. Her 
first performance was in De Lavigne’s very 
long-winded and very tiresome comedy of 
“ L’Ecolé des Vieillards,”’ a comedy which 
differs from a tragedy only in its being 
without any death, except what may happen 
among the audience from excessive yawn- 
ing; and which seems to have been written 
by one of the fatiguing old men that it cha- 
racterises. But in France dramatic talent 
is now in exactly the same degeneracy as in 
England. We have no right to exult over 
the more prostrate stupidity of our vivacious 
neighbours ; their stage is dull, and ours is: 
just as dull. We adopt and adapt from. 
them ; they adopt and adapt from the Spa- 
‘Nnish and the German. So runs the circle ; 
and the system of adoption by M. Scribe is 
just as palpable and as nationally unproduc- 
tive as that of any of the facewrs who pro- 
vide us with flippancy and foolery at second- 
hand. 
Mademoiselle Mars has been for many 
years at the head of French comedy; and 
she has unequivocally deserved her distine- 
tion. Nothing French could be more 
finished than her performance of Hortense, 
the coquettish wife. With all the national 
vivacity, she had the good taste to keep it 
down to the universal standard of easy elo- 
quence ; and, with the singular volatility of 
tongue that belongs to her countrywomen- 
evidently at her command, she spoke with 
a delicacy and occasional composure, that 
allowed her accents to sink into the heart. 
This fine performance is an instance of the 
power of talent over time. She is said to 
be above fifty ; yet her countenance, on the 
stage, has almost the freshness of early life; 
her features are expressive, and her smile is — 
perfectly beautiful. Her face is, it is true, 
on the model of the French Venus, round, 
full, and small featured. Neither an ancient 
Greek nor a modern Englishman would be 
inclined to think the rotund in face or per- 
son the most fortunate of forms. But every 
nation has its taste, from the negroes up- 
wards, and the sphere is in France the 
model of perfection in eyes, visage, and 
figure. Mademoiselle Mars was received 
with great applause. 
‘a 
