THEATRICALS.

PARK.-During the past month nothing has been presented to the public of a novel character, at this house, which was not adverted to in our last number-in other words, Mr. and Mrs. Mathews and Mr. Power have been again engaged, and have occupied nearly the whole of the time.

Mr. and Mrs. Mathews terminated their engagement about the middle of the month. On the gentleman's benefit night, which was announced as offering their performances for the last time in this country, the audience was exceedingly large and fashionable, and the several personations of these artists were greeted with warm plaudits from every part of the house. It cannot be questioned that their acting was fully worthy of the applause and acclamation bestowed upon it. Both these performers are excellent. Mrs. Mathews is the more finished artist of the two, but the distinction is one only to be discovered by the careful scrutiny of the analytical critic. We have not space to speak at large on this point: yet, in a few words, we will endeavor to convey our meaning. Mrs. Mathews ever appears the character she would personate. She never steadily gazes at the audience, betraying signs that she knows there are persons before her. She is wholly lost in her vocation. No actress can be more perfect-though others may be more fascinating, and may overcome us with "special wonder." The style of her acting is such that persons who wish to see something beyond nature had better not witness her performancessuch persons can see just such acting every day in a lady's parlor, without paying a dollar, if they have only the happiness of being introduced into good society. Mrs. Mathews, then, is only to be admired by those who have a good taste for the dramatic art and those who have never seen much of lifethose who prefer to view it at the theatre than search for it in the actual world. Mr. Mathews is not equal to his consort. He

is, however, a diligent and apt pupil. He has learned rapidly, and, of course, has unlearned, also, to a good degree. He has much still to unlearn. He is always before an audience-his eyes tell you that he is aware of it-his smiles at the pit are the seals that assure you of it. In whatsoever character you behold him, your mind ejaculates there is Charles Mathews.

Mr. Power, the personator of Irish character, passed through his farewell engagement immediately subsequent to that of the performers we have mentioned above. We have often witnessed, with pleasure, bis delineations: they are always replete with a rich humor which is sure to please. We must take exception, however, to his mono-dramas, if we would make any thing like a critical comment upon the stage. No matter what this actor appears in, it is Power here, and Power there-Power everywhere! One is inclined to think that the actor is a perfect autocrat, for it matters not how much the other actors are annoyed, so he lights the scene. This, truly, is not observable at a single performance, but where a person witnesses the same play several times, it is evident that Mr. Power causes nearly all the stumbling on the part of those who have as good a right to be heard as himself. This is shameful. It is not only uncourteous to the actors, but is disrespectful to the audiences who, year after year, countenance and applaud them. It is Mr. Power's cunning that does all this-although he has not the cunning to conceal it from those who have their eyes open. It is not, however, our province or disposition to expose all these tricks, unless they interfere with the enjoyment of the audience. We hope to have such things reformed altogether in future, Mr. Power would be much more acceptable to all parties, we think, if he were a little more modest.

As an actor he is very amusing-there is no one more so; yet, he has his faults. One of his chief ones we will mention. It is his familiarity with his audiences-his impudent self-possession, which carries him through every thing, and which strengthens our belief in the old maxim,-" Brass is every thing." If this is inherent to his composition, we regret it; if it is a "part of his system," let him rid himself of it as speedily as it is possible for him so to do. We admire his talent-we laugh at his Momus-like face-we are pleased with his accom

plishments-but we wish he were not more than half as populur as he is, that he might be obliged to work in the harness with others, and thus be of more benefit to the profession he has chosen. Moreover, we wish that the people were less satisfied than they are with the little sketches in which he appearsthat they would find fault with mere scenes, and demand something from the players which should approach to what might be called a comedy. However, the work of reform, if it be commenced, must of necessity be slow in its progress. The practices of speculators in dramatic talent have done so much injury to the drama that it will be many years before any inportant change can be effected. The days of the legitimate drama, nevertheless, must be restored, or the drama-the acted drama, must die into paltry insignificance.

NATIONAL. At this establishment, within a few weeks, engagements have been fulfilled by the Corps de Ballet, under Monsieur Hazard, as he was styled in the bills; by Mr. Forrest, and by Mademoiselle Celeste. As yet, we have not spoken of the first of these.

The Corps de Ballet was partially successful, and only so; for this French company was almost entirely composed of American girls, who have been under the instruction of Mr. Hazard in Philadelphia for several months. Why will our managers endeavor to announce all their novelties as imported, or, as having been polished by an engagement at a foreign theatre? Is the fault with the public? If so, let it be amended. Let us take some delight in encouraging our own artists, and not expend all our praise npon the second-rate and third-rate artists of England and France-persons who may shine very well in the parts they are wont to personate at home, but who, to be successful here, introduce petty plays night after night, and week after week, which are applauded much more than the best dramas of the best writers, and are utterly dangerous to the future interests of the drama. But to return to our subject,

Madame Stephan, of the company we have mentioned, is certainly worthy of a remark. She dances with ease and grace, and is sure to be welcomed by the audience whenever she appears. Some of her associates are very promising in their art, and, by severe study, may in time approach to Madame Stephan's finish, though they can never expect to equal her in that natural grace which can alone make a dancer great in the eyes of the public.

Mr. Forrest's engagement was, very judiciously in the mansger, a short one. He has confined himself to a few of his old characters, such as Spartacus, Metamora, Claude Meinotte, etc. Rather peculiarly we think, he has not attempted any character moulded by Shakspeare-and is it well that he has not, perhaps; for his fame as an actor, and his purse as a business man, can never be enlarged by his performances in the plays of the immortal dramatist. He can never endue his form and face with the subtle spirit which all of Shakspeare's characters should possess in some degree plainly noticeable. Still, we would not be understood to say that he cannot give us a fair performance in many scenes. He can do so; and sometimes he plays so well that we are surprised that he should hinge upon his efforts, unaccountably fixed deformities.

In Claude Melnotte, Mr. Forrest appears to much advantage. He seems to have felt the character to a good extent, and though we dislike exceedingly his dress as the Prince, we pass it over, to give him our word of praise for the beautiful manner in which he delineates the aspirings of the low-born boy of genius-in which he displays with nicety and precision the sense of error which Claude feels and his determination to wipe the stain away from his character. Yet we should not forget to censure the pointed way in which he addresses the pit, when he exclaims, "Oh, that we-we, the hewers of wood," etc. We have noticed that he always obtains for it a round of applause. It would better become an aspirant for politicsi honors than one who would win renown as an artist, to adopt such a style of expression. The sentence is always delivered emphatically at the audience. We wonder at this, since Mr. Forrest in refusing to address his friends before the curtain, makes this out of the way method of speaking to them during the play, altogether too palpable to be misunderstood.

Mr. Forrest's engagement was a farewell one, and he has departed to the Southern cities. On the last night of his engagement he was called before the curtain, and it was supposed that he would speak, but he only smiled and withdrew immediately upon making his bow. We think this was tasteful. The practice of speaking before the curtain is foolish, and can have no good effect. If a call be made for an actor it should seldom be done, and when done should be, indeed, a compliment.

Mademoiselle Celeste has been attracting very large audiences every night. In the opinion of the multitude, no actress ever equalled her; but she makes the judicious grieve, not so much that she does not please them, but that she pleases the public so much, and that her miserable plays are greeted with applause, while the words of the best dramatists fall almost upon senseless walls. It is true she is an artist, but one in a line of performance which has but little to recommend it. We rather prefer to hear good ideas read well by a plain woman. To the intellectual, we bow in preference; for mere momentary pleasure is as unsatisfactory as a sudden and short shower on a heated desert of sand. The immense popularity of Mademoiselle Celeste exhibits how easily the public are carried away with the vanities of beauty and the trappings of art, rather than by great intellectual merit. Mademoiselle Celeste is an artist. She is certainly very accomplished; but it is out of our power to divine why it is that the people are so anxious to see her perform.

LITERARY REVIEW.

PALAYO: Harper & Brothers. We consider this book as decidedly the best Mr. Simms has presented to the public. With the exception of the Lady Cava, who is a milk-and-waterish creation hardly worthy of a place in its pages, his female characters are creatures of fire and spirit, that rest upon the memory as if colored there with the pencil of an antist. The Gothic courtesan-we have forgotten her name-but the character is vividly before us-is, in our estimation, the most finely delineated, and the most true to nature of any female that he has yet portrayed. There is something thrilling, and yet strangely correct, in the struggle of good and evil in her heart. The death scene kindles the fancy almost to horror, but we should have liked the conclusion better had she been allowed to follow the good impulses of her heart, and have repented in her native mountains. Among the men, is a most despicable villain, and a more than glorious old Jew-the hero, whom we do not exactly fancy, and his brother whom the author most appropriately makes the lover of Lady Cova. The two characters were created each for the other, and if they are not allowed to get married in the promised two volumes, it will be, as the old ladies say, "against all nature." The book will not only be read, but will be remembered: for there are scenes in it that cannot leave the mind.

VELASCO; a Tragedy: Harper & Brothers.-This American production reflects the greatest credit on its talented and young author, Epes Sargent, Esq. We have perused this play with unusual attention, and feel no hesitation in pronouncing it equal to the best of those emanating from foreign dramatists. The poetry of Velasco is rich and glowing-the dialogue is pointed and free from irksomeness-the incidents sufficiently dramatic to ensure the perfectness of stage effect. The reflections of Izidora are chaste and beautiful, particularly in the scene after having beheld the corpse of her murdered father: "He moves not-breathes not! Is this death? No, no! It cannot, should not be! not death! not death! Ah, father, speak-it is thy daughter calls! She, who this morning hung upon thy neckWhom thou didst circle in thy living arms! Oh, do not leave me thus!

Silent, for evermore!

Cold, motionless,

Now to fulfil mine oath! and were there none,
To bind me to pursue the murderer,
To urge me on?
Should not my filial duty be enough

An oath an oath of vengeance!
Oh, what have I to do with vengeance? I,
Who do so shudder at the sight of blood.
Unworthy hesitation; am I not

A warrior's promised bride? Where should I fly,
If not to him, in this calamity?

Alas, he now awaits me, light of heart,
Beside the garden's verge-the spot I chose.
Affliction casts no shadow on his dreams!
He looks for a glad meeting. Oh, Velasco,
What desolation would be round my path,
In this bereavement, where it not for thee!"

And again, her reply, when she discovers her lover, Velasco, is his murderer:

"Wake? Then 'tis a dream!
Duped my poor senses-were it palpable,
Oh, blessed waking! such a dream of horror
It could not more have check'd my frozen blood,
Nor thrill'd mine eyes within their loosen'd orbs.
Methought I gazed upon my slaughter'd sire-
Bound by an oath of dire solemnity,
To take swift vengeance on his murderer.
Distraught with grief, I hasten'd to Velasco-
Whom should I make, but him, my champion?
The lightning's flash-the muffled thunder's peal-
The arrowy rain-I heeded not the storm;
But forward urged my steps, until, at length,
I met my lover near our favorite haunt.
Averted were his eyes-but when he turn'd
To fold me in his arms, pale horror glared
From every tortured feature-then, oh, then-
Thou art Velasco. This is not my home:
My happy chamber, where the morning sun
Sheds such a tender radiance. No; the air
Is black with vapors, and the moaning gale
Bends the high trees and sweeps the murky clouds.
What do I here at such an hour as this?

It was no dream. It is reality."

In conclusion we quote the following, previous to her anticipated nuptials with Velasco:

"My home seems changed: new faces stare upon me;
Familiar ones are miss'd; or, do I dream?
Was it not all mere fantastic play
Of brain-sick fancy? No. I stood before
The king, and claim'd redress against my
Oh, hypocrite! thy tongue besought a boon

lover.

Thy inmost heart rejected. I have fail'd
In my first trial-would it were the last.
May it not be the last? Have I not done
All that could be exacted of me? No!
My duty urges, and my oath compels-
Terrible duty! heart-distracting oath!
Is this the hand to point th' avenging steel-
To point it against him! And do I waver?
Do I so soon infract my sacred word?
Ye powers of retribution, strengthen me-
And thou, impatient ghost, rebuke me not
For this delay: I'll not forget thy mandate:
I will do all my woman's weakness can."

Throughout the entire work, we could continue making extracts, in proof of our opinion, were it necessary; but the reputation of Mr. Sargent is too firmly established to require such Ia course. It is, in short, a production reflecting alike honor to the poetic powers of the author and the dramatic literature of our country. Velasco has been produced in Boston with the most unequivocal success. Miss Ellen Tree sustained Izidora, the heroine. It will, we are happy to learn, be performed at the South this winter by the same lady.

STANLEY; or, the Recollections of a Man of the World: Lea & Blanchard.-This is an American work; the name of the author is not, however, revealed. It equals any of those which are now flowing so fast from the press of our country, and in point of literary composition it is superior to many of them.G. & C. Carvill.

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.-The publishers, Lea & Blanchard, have issued, complete in one volume, the first part of this peculiarly interesting narrative. The illustrations are numerous and characteristic of the story. Charles Dickens, the notorious "Boz," is the editor of the work in question.-G. & C. Carvill.

NAPOLEON MEMOIRS-Evenings with Prince Cambacérés.—|| E. L. Carey & A. Hart.-The author seems possessed of the necessary materials for the formation of a valuable record of past events. We have not read it through, but what we have satisfies us that it is one of great interest.-Wiley & Putnam.

AN EXPEDITION OF DISCOVERY IN AFRICA. E. L. Carey & A. Hart. This work is the production of James Edward Alexander, under whose conduct the expedition commenced its tour of discoveries. The volumes are interspersed with anecdotes illustrative of African manners, together with a brief description of the chase as conducted in that wild country. It is an invaluable work.-Wiley & Putnam.

THE MIDDY: E. L. Carey & A. Hart.-This is another of those numerous productions, the foundation of which is laid on the ocean. The interest of all such narratives are mostly of a nature calculated to enlist deeply the feelings of the reader. -Wiley & Putnam.

ROMANCE OF VIENNA: E. L. Carey & A. Hart.-Here we have the famed Mrs. Trollope again. Her mind is ever active, and consequently she is always engaged with something or otherwhether it be of a libellous or innocent nature it is the same to her. Her powers of description are great and they would do honor to a more worthy owner. There is a peculiarity about her writings that we have ever admired, although we strongly condemned her illiberal and prejudiced opinions.

BRITISH SENATE: E. L. Carey & A. Hart.-The author of the "Great Metropolis," has, apparently after much labor and research, succeeded in manufacturing the "British Senate; a second series of "Recollections of the Lords and Commons." It is a work, we doubt not of much truth, inasmuch as the author states he has done every thing in his power to insure the greatest possible accuracy in his statements. The description of the opening of Parliament by the young queen, Victoria, will amply repay a perusal.-Wiley & Putnam.

EDITORS' TABLE.

ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS, Barclay street.-A most magnificent collection of pictures has just been opened in Barclay St., each picture a study and a gem. Four are by Dubufe. One is a thrilling scene from Lord Byron. The quiet and holy picture of John in the Wilderness, is of itself sufficient to place The Circassian the artist at the head of modern painters. Slave, and the Princess of Capua, the one a portrait, the other an illustration of a common Eastern custom, are both full of Dubufe's peculiar excellence. The satin drapery about the former is perfection in its way. But the principal attraction of the room is an immense picture of the Destruction of Jerusalem, by Titus, for the first time exhibited since it came from the hands of the artist. A day might be well spent in examining this fine painting, and each hour would end in the discovery of a host of rich beauties, unperceived by the careless observer. It is indeed a rare production. The Revolt in Paris is the only remaining scene which is of deep interest and finely executed. The whole entirely fills the exhibition room, which is fitted up with excellent taste, and with a regard to light which gives a most beautiful effect.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS M. B. SNOWDEN.

THE Sweetest flowers that gem the gay parterre,
In transient beauty bloom, and fade away:
And mem'ry fondly sighs o'er flowers that were
The fleeting shadows of the by-gone day.
And thou art gone! gone to thy narrow home
Ere rip'ning years had nursed thee into bloom,
To that bright world where angel spirits roam
Whose op'ning gates are in the silent tomb.

Spirit of maiden purity, farewell:

Claim'd by the holy sisterhood of Heaven, In endless realms of light and life to dwell, Sinless in soul-in lighter sins forgiven.

W. E.

I SAW the Turkey in his matchless pride;
The barn-yard ground, with crest erect, he walked.
His subjects marched behind and by his side;

And he Grand Turk of all, imperious stalked.
No crowned king could with this fowl compare
In his majestic step and stately air.

Himself at his full height he proudly raised

Each other Turkey meekly bent his head, And then around him in contempt he gazed,

And, could he speak, I'm sure he'd thus have said:
"Show me the Turkey on this farm, I say,
That from myself can bear the palm away."
Thus thought the Turkey, and in grandeur stood;
But soon the ruthless farmer-boy drew nigh-
His right hand sternly grasped a club of wood,
His sleeves up-rolled, and murder in his eye.
With direful force he struck one deadly blow,
And on the ground he laid that Turkey low.

The Turkey fell; but struggled still with death:
His eye a look of stern defiance wore;
And, half up-raised, he madly strove for breath,
Then gave one desperate gasp, and-all was o'er!
And here this moral is impressed on all,
That soon or later, pride must have a fall.

Ah, hapless Turkey! Hard was thy sad fate!

For o'er thy mangled corpse, in joyous glee,
Matrons, maids, urchins, each before a plate,
Shall mingle laugh and mirth and jollity,
Until, at last, satiety shall be,
And they are full of happiness-and thee!

And ye,
the offspring of that luckless bird,
Will ye not sigh, and weep, and rave, because
He whose sweet gobbles have so oft been heard,
Is gobbled up himself by human jaws?
And cackle curses 'gainst that custom grand,
Which spreads such havoc through all Turkey Land?

The happy parents, for their children's joy,

Have made ye parentless; he who was living Yesterday, your sire, now dead, they do employGrief infinite to you-for their thanksgiving. So goes the world; what's happiness to me, Another's direst curse, perchance, may be. Reader-these lines a moral good contain, Which you with care may easily discover; I shall not deem my verses are in vain, If you will deign to con that moral over. Yes! In these stanzas of an unfledged pen, A lesson is to Turkeys-and to men!