ing a wild path, narrow, stony and precipitous: whence did he come, whither was he going? (Trick of preparation) no one knew: (Trick of mystery) he was clad, (three columns on his dress, his appearance, his hair, his staff, and his portmanteau) but in contemplating this dark outline so well thrown out by the back ground of white-rock, (trick of antithesis,) the beholder would be struck with terror was it a human being after all? To be continued in our next. (Trick of suspended interest.)

This is the substance of the first feuilleton, and with these six tricks, the writer has secured his asinine public. The trick of the second will be to speak of everything but the dark form on the Cat Mountain. The reader will be anxious, for the length of twenty chapters, to know if the form was a man, a woman, or a fairy; so, finally, in the twenty-first chapter he finds, to his great disgust, that it was only a Savoyard with his marmots, or a pedlar going to sell his wares at Chamberry.

And will this ticketed mechanical literature endure long? We think not. Everything of the kind wears out at last. When the good-natured public, by dint of reading the same story, has found out the trick of the combinations, it will guess the sequel from the opening of the tale, and fling away the worthless rubbish.

Already have our Balzac, our Karr, our Gozlan, and others, tired of dragging the roller of the combinations, and of immolating their genius on the procrustean bed of the daily feuilleton, betaken themselves to flight. "Take all Boeotia, occupy even Peloponnesus," say they to the barbarians, "as for us, retired to this quiet corner of Attica, we will continue to drink the wine of Syracuse, and praise the immortal gods, while waiting for better times."

Do you think that Jules Janin, that genius so varied, that eternal spring, in a word, would have still preserved his wonderful charm of style, if, at his outset, he had thrown himself, head foremost, into the cavern of the combinations and trucs.

No, but instead of that tone, clear and ravishing, which now enchants the world, we should hear but the squeak of the mouth-piece from behind Mr. Punch's curtain.

And now no one has survived the self-ruined feuilleton but Dumas alone; and he does the romance still, for he can do every thing, even write a tragedy when he wishes it particularly. He resembles the courier of St. Petersburgh at the circus, and can drive four steeds at a time. As for poor Sue, it is hard to say whether he has died by the visitation of Socialism or the newspaper romance.

And now for the advantages of this sort of literature. The pen has given place to the paste and scissors; the masons have routed the architects. The public could formerly count a few gold pieces; now they may jingle copper sous in their pockets; while young and old scholars divert themselves in killing, defiling, burying, unearthing, and poisoning their readers with their extravagant and villainous combinations.

Texier predicted the downfal of this idol, and Louis Napoleon has endeavoured to fulfill his prophecy by taxing its priests and show-men.

With the following sketch of a banker, peculiar to Paris, we close our extracts, hoping to encounter our talented, and versatile, and right-thinking, critic on some future occasion:

Monsieur X. has gained a town and country house by trading on the wants of managers, authors, actors, and others connected with the drama. All his days resemble each other. In the morning he visits needy managers, and purchases, for a certain sum in hand, the evening's receipts, offering less or more, according to the state of the weather, the names of the artists, and the appearance of the playbill. X., we will say, offers 1,400 francs for a particular evening. Manager. I must have 1,600.' X. If it threatened rain I would not hesitate, but the weather is fair, and there will be a fine starlight night at the opening of the doors.' Manager. I'm sure it will rain, look at the barometer.' X. Your instrument is not worth a farthing, I won't advance the 200 francs.' Manager. We will play a piece of D-'s' X. There are not enough of women in your piece, what do the public care for one that has only two women in it? Now, if it was only the vaudeville of N., where a whole swarm of young girls appear.' Manager. Well, well, the vaudeville must be played.' X. Very well, here are your 1,600 francs, but I won't make 100 sous by the transaction'; and off he sets to another hardup manager. At two o'clock he is at home, sitting before his desk in his dressing gown, waiting for his numerous clients. Enter dramatic author. X. My dear friend, I am glad to see you, how are we getting on?' Author. Famously; I have just got a drama accepted at the Porte St. Martin.' X., smelling a bargain. A poor theatre just now-wretched actors-scenery of the last age. Why did you not take your piece to La Gaieté ?' Author. They are rehearsing one for me there this moment.' X. But, as I was going to say, La Gaieté has declined very much too: it is not a great deal better than Porte St. Martin: nothing will do now but the Vaudeville.' Author, getting impatient. We are not speaking of the Vaudeville, but of a drama. What will you give me for my five act play?' X. Eh, eh, money is scarce, and the public lazy. Is it a modern play?' Author. Certainly, not older than yesterday. X. Modern fashionable black clothes?' Author 'Yes.' X. Bad idea. Black is the devil's own color to draw a house: the women hate it. Now, if it was only a costume piece.' Author. Your price, if you please, Father X?-I am in a hurry.' X. Ah, what fellows these authors are! They think we have only to stoop down to pick up gold. Is this play an ear-tearing one, has it clever points, terrible situations?' Author. It is as Corsican as the Bell-Ringer of St. Paul's! X. ‹ Ah, so much the worse; nothing but the sentimental will go down now; witness La Grâce de Dieu, and François le Champi. Hugo's drama is gone to the dogs, Dumas beats the air with one wing, even Bouchardy is as used up as an old cord. Author. Well, then, you do not care for my play?' X. Indeed, I am not in a fright about it: what do you expect?' Author. Three thousand francs.' X. Three thousand francs! do you wish to drive me to the mendicity, do you intend to take my life?' Author. Father X., you know you gained six thousand by my last.' X. Oh, dear, none but authors would say

such things. I might have lost instead of gained. Will you have 1,200 francs for your coat and waistcoat play? Author. Impossible: 2,500 francs is the lowest sous. The fifth act is superb, pure Shakespeare.' X. Well, then, some other time. Now, if 1,500 francs would tempt you.' Author. Come, Father X., shell out 2,000.' X. 'No.' Author. Well, nothing can be done, I'll be off.' X. 1,800 francs.' Author. No, I have said my last word.' X. 'Let it be the 2,000, but you must give a one act vaudeville into the bargain.' Enter an Actor. Good morning, my boy, what's the matter; are you ill?' Actor. No, but I'm not in good humor.' X. What has happened?' Actor. You know well enough what has happened: your people neglect my entries and exits both, the clap resounds no more, and yesterday I was hissed.' X. Oh, my goodness!' Actor. Oh, how astonished you are, and I only in arrear a day or two.' X. Regular accounts, my boy, should be kept between friends, that's my maxim.' Actor. Here are your 150 francs for the month: I hope you'll condescend to remember me.' X. Depend on me. This very evening you shall get a reception of the first class, two salvos at your entry, and applause at the proper times during your whole performance.' An Actress appears at the threshold. Ah,' cried X., ever young, ever handsome, ever charming,' putting his hand to his Greek cap, by my faith, Mademoiselle, you'll never grow old.' Actress. Listen, Father X., they are going to give one of my parts to Evelina.' X.Ah ha, that is a serious matter.' Actress. You may say serious, but Evelina plays this very evening, and she must be hissed to death.' X. But she is one of my best customers.' Actress. What does she give monthly?' X. 200 francs, paid on the nail, the first day of each month?' Actress. Well, then, once and away, you must be faithless to her.' X. Eh, eh!' Actress. Suppose I mention a 500 franc note?' X. 'I can refuse you nothing, Mademoiselle, Evelina shall be extinguished this very evening.'

6

At night X. goes from one theatre to another, to see that his people, the claqueurs, perform their duty, does business with the authors whom he meets in the green room, and with the actors in the coulisses. At midnight he returns home, and resumes negociations next morning. At this moment he is a millionaire multiplied by three, and does not spend 20,000 francs (£400) in the year.

For sketches of the Bohemian life of a large class of authors and artists in Paris, so pleasantly depicted by Henri Murger; for the abuse lavished by Paul Leroux and Proudhon on each other, and for a mass of very agreeable and interesting matter, we refer the reader to the original.

There is also an excellent article on late books of travels, written by gentlemen who never went outside the Banlieue in their lives, but the duty placed on the feuilleton extinguished this branch of industry for several writers of the truc and nine combination orders.

We have now introduced our two French friends to the reader, and so leave them to his judgement. Texier is well deserving of all the approbation that can be extended to him, but our friend Alexander has given us considerable trouble in placing him in an English dress. One can suppose that he, years ago, commenced to keep a diary, and then, finding it too troublesome, neglected it, feeling with Marmontel-" Rediger un journal c'est-a-dire condamner au travail de Sisyphe ou à celui des Danaides." We can fancy that the chapters written at various times were placed in a hat, shaken well, drawn forth, printed, connected by a few words judiciously introduced, and then published as Mémoires d' Alexandre Dumas.

ART. III.-MACKLIN, THE ACTOR AND DRAMATIST.

IN the tenth chapter of the third book of Joseph Andrews, where the Poet and the Player discourse upon the decay of genius in their time, the reader may have observed the following words, spoken, sneeringly, by the disappointed Player :— "What do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy, young Cibber, or that ill-looked dog, Macklin, or that saucy slut, Mrs. Clive ?" We are about to write the memoir of our fellow countryman, the "ill-looked dog, Macklin,"

The life of an actor which reaches the ordinary span of human existence, cannot fail to afford many scenes of interest and variety. It is often adventurous as that of the soldier, and it has been selected by two of the most remarkable writers of modern times, as furnishing incidents best calculated to excite laughter by its drollery, or as likely to cause sympathy by its pathos. Who has not enjoyed the perplexities and equivoques in the career of Deputy and his companions, in Scarron's Romances? Who has not wondered at the marvellous power of genius, as displayed by Goethe, in Wilhelm Meister, when Philina and Laertes, and the other actors are introduced, and when that pensive child woman, so loving and so sorrowingMignon-the German Fenella, is a thing of life, coming back upon the memory in after years, like the remembrance of children seen in the vision of a dream? Who has not smiled at Hogarth's picture of the Strolling Players? These are fictions

founded upon the adventures of those who reach the average years of men, but in Macklin's life the period over which his fortunes extended nearly doubled that enjoyed by others—at his death he was aged one hundred and seven years, two months, and ten days, and seventy-three years of his existence had been devoted to his profession. He was the associate of all the bril liant, and witty, and famous, of these years. Pope and Johnson; Bolingbroke and Loughborough; Garrick and open-hearted, out-speaking, Kitty Clive; Cibber and Coleman, and the elder Sheridan; the charming charmer, the Vestris of our great grandfathers, Peg Woffington, and the laughing, joyous, Dora Jordan, all these were his intimates. In the study he created Macsarcasm and Mac Sycophant for himself; and the other characters in Love-a-la-Mode, and in the Man of the World were formed from his observations of real life. On the stage he was the restorer of Shylock; he rescued it from the rôle of the low comedian, and made it, by his acting, as Pope's lines express, -the Jew

That Shakespeare drew."

This is the man, actor and dramatist, whom we are about to describe to our readers.

William M'Laughlin, the father of our subject, was one of those who, in the darkest hours of the well merited adversity of the false house of Stuart, clung to the standard of James the Second. He was of an ancient Irish family, and his faith and his feudalism incited him to support the King against the Prince of Orange. Events crowd onward, and all who backed the cause of the King rallied towards the North of Ireland. William M'Laughlin was accompanied to the camp by his wife, who was regardless of her own comfort, provided she could be beside her husband, and amid the din of warlike preparations a son was born to William M'Laughlin, on the 1st of May, 1690. The child was named Charles, and during two months was nurtured with such care as his mother's position permitted; but, upon the first day of July, 1690, the battle of the Boyne was fought, and in the flight of those who supported the beaten "pious fool," young baby M'Laughlin was carried away, transported in a turf kish

*It had been represented as a low comedy character by Dogget. See IRISH QUArterly Review, No. 6, Vol. II., p. 305, for a sketch of Dogget.