been, in the classic ages, when it was made a matter of national importance, it certainly is but of little utility in modern days. It is true, we have occasionally very sublime precepts inculcated; such as, that it is very wicked to kill a king, very dangerous to usurp an empire, and many other such gigantic crimes, that we, common folk, have very rarely an opportunity, and still more rarely a disposition, to perpetrate. Such are the excellent pieces of advice, ostentatiously held forth, by way of a sop to the old Cerberus virtue, who, by the by, has grown very infirm and weak in the eyes, in these latter days: and having paid this kind of toll, the moralists of the stage consider themselves at liberty to follow their own fancies, and be as licentious as they please.

There is no kind of mischief more dangerous than that which is done under the mask of morality. Open, avowed profligacy carries a caveat with it that puts us on our guard; a professedly immoral and obscene play would attract none but the vitious and the vulgar. But we have occasionally seen some worthy old citizen, with his motherly consort, and a hopeful progeny of grownup daughters, listening with smug, contented countenances, to a tissue of villanous intrigues, and hideous debaucheries, enough to corrupt the principles and disease the imaginations of the whole family-but then the play had an excellent moral, and it is ten to one but the hero was either stabbed, or stabbed himself, in the fifth act, which plainly shows what vice must come to at last.

Or should the old gentleman bring his hopeful son and heir to the play, he is taught to despise parental authority as an intole rable restraint upon a lad of spirit, and is shown a thousand amusing modes of deceiving old hunks, or old squaretoes, or some other of those technical appellations which designate reverend old age. He is taught that libertinism of the most criminal kind, such as would poison the cup of domestic happiness, and impair the dearest bonds of society, is nothing but youthful spirit, and manly gallantry. Spendthrift profusion is represented to him as generosity; it is dazzling to behold in these brave plays how money flies about in every scene. There are no beings so generous as those who have nothing to give; and this may be the reason why play writers and play actors are so wonderfully munificent. We have beheld the bearer of a billetdoux rewarded with a handful

of gold; a gossipping chambermaid feed with a full purse, for betraying the secrets of a family; and now and then, when the occasion is a little extraordinary, we have absolutely seen the stage deluged with a shower of brass guineas.

And then as to the persons who represent these scenes of elegant life, who, of course, are to be considered models of fashion and gentility-they are too often "dire dogs," whose ideas of elegance and ease have, peradventure, been acquired among the dirty beaux of the tavern, or the choice spirits of the porter-house. Or fine ladies who exhibit the maudlin elegance of low life; who mistake mawkish affectation for grace, and pertness for vivacity. To these observations there certainly are exceptions, but we speak of what is too generally the case in theatres.

But what shall we say of those plays that outrage modesty ; those ribald and indecent scenes, at which virtue revolts, and modesty hangs its head. We have witnessed, and witnessed with burning indignation, some miserable vagabond of a buffoon, dwelling on obscene allusions, giving them tenfold grossness by his emphasis and manner, and seeming to triumph in the opportunity of insulting female delicacy with impunity. We have witnessed the brutal shouts and clamorous applause of the vulgar, whose enjoyment of each dirty joke seemed heightened by the blushes and confusion with which it covered every female countenance. We cannot but express our contempt for such grovelling ambition, that seeks to gratify the base minded at the expense of the vir tuous. We cannot but express our abhorrence of such plays as are calculated to shock the modesty of our females-or, what is worse, to render them callous to indecency.

But these abuses will ever exist, so long as theatres are made the means of private emolument. They will always consult rather than reform the taste of the public. They will come down to the gross tastes and obtuse minds of the vulgar, and encourage and perpetuate the follies of the times. We are not speaking merely of our own theatres: we have seen in the history of the British stage how theatres have been made little better than brothelshow the haunts of vice and debauchery were diligently explored, to afford scenes for public entertainment, and how fine geniuses could forget what was due to their high endowments, could abuse

the divinity within them, and descend to be the panders of a depraved and licentious age. Splendid but disgraceful monuments of this prostitution of mind we behold in the plays of Congreve, Vanburgh, Farquhar and even DRYDEN; monuments which remind us of those sumptuous but profane piles, which were anciently erected to the infernal deities.

The present state of the stage in England is another proof how prone it is to degenerate in mercenary hands. We are indebted to that country for incessant philippics on our want of refinement; yet what right has a nation to lecture others on taste and elegance, whose principal theatres are transformed into mere bear-gardens— where nothing will satisfy the enlightened public, but melo-drames, pantomimes, elephants, swimming dogs, leaping horses, and other bestialities. We do not wonder that Cooke abandoned a stage, where, like poor Gulliver, he was eclipsed by those Houynhnm competitors; nor should we be surprised if Kemble were driven from his empire by the irruption of Timour and his Tartars.

We have therefore given up all expectations of great national benefit from the theatre; we consider it as a mere resort of amusement, to while away an idle hour, which might be spent more unprofitably; to vary the scene of common life, and to furnish something wherewithal to enliven our imaginations and refresh our minds amid the dusty cares of business. The most we ask from those who conduct it is, that they will endeavour to correct its abuses as much as their interests will permit; that it shall be as innocent as possible in its nature, and shall not leave us much worse than it found us.

The arrival of Cooke was an era in the American drama. Our stage had certainly been much improved by the excellent acting of Mr. Cooper, but we had now before us a model, and were furnished with an opportunity of studying the perfection of the art. Of the other arts that are objects of taste, and addressed to the imagination, we are enabled to judge, in this country, with facility. Their productions are transferrable, and may be transported from place to place, and preserved unimpaired for ages. But the masterpieces of acting are inseparable from the artist. Imitation can give but a meager and spiritless idea of them; description is still more inefficient. It was therefore but little to be expected,

by the lovers of the drama in this country, that they should be enabled to behold the achievements of a master; nor indeed is it probable they would have had this gratification, had not the sudden passion for horse plays broken out among the English dellitanti, and made them rather negligent of the humbler merits of their two-legged performers.

The performances of Cooke have awakened a new taste in acting. The noble simplicity with which he played, at first surprised and almost disappointed the multitude. It requires delicacy of perception, and a certain cultivation of taste, to relish what is really admirable in art; for its naked simplicity too commonly eludes the vulgar eye. We recollect a worthy countryman of ours, who, on first beholding the Apollo of Belvidere, was grievously disappointed to find, after all he had heard about it, that it was "nothing but a naked man!"

Such was the case with many on the first appearance of Cooke, They expected, of course, to witness something striking and astonishing. Some robustious hero, who, like the redoubtable Bottom, should play in the "true tyrant's vein," and roar "until the Duke should cry encore." Whereas, on the contrary, they beheld a man that neither stamped, nor started, nor slapped his breast, nor threw himself into attitudes; one so devoid of stage mummery, so free from rant, so like the life, in a word, so good, that they were utterly at a loss what to think of it. If this were acting, it seemed as if every body could act, for it was but to get upon the stage and talk like other men.

It must be admitted, however, that even the groundlings quickly learnt to appreciate the true merits of his acting. It was gratifying to witness the thunders of applause that followed some of those sudden, masterly turns of expression, for which Cooke was remarkable those simple, eloquent, but familiar movements, that took you unawares; that thrilled through your whole frame; that made you feel they were fine, before you had time to consult your judgment. These were exquisite, because so purely natural. It seemed as if Cooke had a short cut by which he arrived at his object almost without exertion, pouncing upon it with the velocity and unerring aim of the eagle. He possessed a command of feature, a wonderful mobility of the muscles of the face, that enabled

him to speak volumes with his looks. Expression played over his countenance like summer lightning, with quick and ever varying vivacity; and flashed from his eyes with a keenness that shed a blaze of light on the meaning of his author. This, aided by a peculiarly emphatic elocution, enabled him to throw so much poignant effect into a small compass, and to deal those master strokes of acting, that penetrated in an instant to the very souls of his auditors.

From the whole style of his acting, and from the opinion that can be formed from his biography, he seems to have been an actor more from genius than study. He had an innate aptitudefor the art, and seemed to depend more upon the resources of his own mind, and his intuitive perception of what was correct and excellent, than to form himself, with cautious correctness, and all the precision of feeble mediocrity, on the technical rules of criticism. With the clear eye that ever accompanies a master, he had penetrated through the mists of error, and the perversions of false acting, and had contemplated the simple but grand elementary principles of the art. On these he formed himself, and laid the foundation of all his excellencies. His style and manner appear to have been his own; he copied no one servilely; it is true, he improved himself by the performances of other great actors, but it was only as one great painter improves by the productions of another. Finding out the principles on which they excelled, and adopting those principles and applying them to his own manner; copying them only, where they copied nature; or, rather, studying nature in their performances.

With all his excellence, however, Cooke was a very limited actor. He had the judgment to find out the particular line in which he excelled, and sufficient discretion to confine himself to it. He was deficient in any great elevation of mind, or sensibility of heart. Hence, he was little calculated for those characters that required heroic loftiness of carriage, or the dignity of deportment that springs from conscious virtue; neither could he depict, with any great success, the gentler passions and tender emotions, that produce the pathetic. It was in the harsher passions that he excelled. Hatred, malice, pride, arrogance, suspicion, revenge, he could represent with the most baleful accuracy. His delineations of chuckling, triumphant craft, and cold-blooded cruelty,