into the habit, from the same cause, of listening with too much complacency to those writers who flattered him, and thereby secured over him a stronger influence than was possessed by many of his friends.

Of these things I do not pretend to form a competent judgment either as to the truth or falsehood; but, as an actor, I confess the effect he produced on my feelings in "Othello" and "Macbeth," tragedies in which I was a more competent judge than in dramatic pieces purely French, was such as I never before experienced, except on seeing Mrs. Siddons in some of her best characters. He had abandoned French declamation, and substituted the simple and natural tone attaching to the part. Of intonation and expression in all their phases he was a perfect master. The terrible in his representations was more fixed in the heart of the spectator-the spectator himself became more a part of the scene going forward on the boards than I ever found the case with any other performer. In some passages where the gloomy and profound, the energetic and terrible, or where vengeance, fury, despair, by turns moved in the action, he made the frame thrill with painful emotion, and not unfrequently a species of fear. This was more particularly visible in his delineation of Othello. His fury was terrific, electrical, the real being, not the ideal image of the passion, he depicted. The difference of years in his characters was portrayed too with surprising verisimilitude. The decrepitude of age, and the vivacity of youth were, in him, equally pictures of unexceptionable excellence.

We were dining together one day with several friends, when Talma recited in English some passages from "Richard III." His terrible sardonic laugh in this character has been frequently commented upon. He accented differently from our tragedians the passage, "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse," which, on the English stage, was generally given with great emphasis on the first syllable of "kingdom." Talma spoke it more in accordance with nature, the emphasis being laid by him strongly upon the word "horse," the object desired in his extremity by the tyrant, more than upon the reward, although some might argue that the incitement to obtain the object desired, as applied to others, should be most audible. The natural course was that adopted by Talma -the principal means desired being expressed before the accessory ones. On entering the salon of Madame D- with him one day, a very pretty girl from the provinces, whose ears his fame had reached, but who had never seen Talma, was eager to observe him. Although he entered the room in good spirits the young lady turned to a companion and said,

"So that is M. Talma! How sad he looks. I suppose his representing tragedy so frequently makes him melancholy out of the theatre." Her companion, to set her right, told her it was the natural character of his physiognomy.

"Oh, then his melancholy made him play tragedy-instead of tragedy having made him look melancholy-I see it now."

Talma was much diverted by the inference of the young provinciale.

"I should be sorry to advise any one to make the stage a profession," he said to me one day; "I discourage all who come to me, full of enthusiasm, and self-convinced of success, if they can but make their débût. I

tell them they are upon the edge of a precipice blindfolded, while they fancy they are strutting with royal robes in the palace-gardens."

"Would you choose the profession of an actor, if you were to go through life again?"

"I would," he replied; "looking at myself-I have succeeded. I would not when I recollect the effects of the members who have failedthe chances of success are infinitely small."

"Was Napoleon a good judge of acting?"

"He leaned rather to the sentiment than to the representation-his judgment was sound-sometimes tinctured with a bias to favourite notions. His successes strengthened my regard for simplicity in all things connected with my profession-his habits, expressions, directions, actions, were governed by perfect simplicity. The military say the same of all his field operations-nothing is great but it is simple."

"Of your own dramatic authors, among the more celebrated, which do you prefer?"

"Corneille."

"You want in French the power of our blank verse, to render more complete the illusion of the stage."

"In England it would be missed, and the loss could not be compensated; but the genius of our language is more cramped-less capable of free expression than yours; we are hampered by rules which must be obeyed; our audiences, too, are accustomed to the recurrence of rhyme in tragedy, without which the French would hardly be poetical prose in the sight of a foreigner or a native."

The peculiar manner of this great actor, many of his delicate touches in his histrionic painting, those excellences which stamped him the founder of a school of actors peculiarly his own, and in which he yet stands alone in his glory, I can remember well. Long years have elapsed since we first met and parted, and many have passed away since his death. No successor has appeared to follow his footsteps, even at a lagging distance. Talma has departed with the generation that conferred upon him his renown. No evidence of his talents can be submitted to present judgment, his name alone being emergent in the waste of time. This is the lot of all his profession. From the existing state of the dramatic art, both in England and France, it becomes a question whether it will be revived in some future time-whether again future Talmas and Kembles shall appear to delight and instruct the nations. Under the present aspect of things, we must live upon the recollection of what we have seen, and repeat the tale to the generation whose birth was almost consentaneous with the disappearance of this greatest of modern tragedians.

THE DUELLIST'S VOW.

A TALE FOR THE TIMES.

UPON a certain Wednesday evening in the spring of the year 183—, a considerable concourse of persons was assembled upon the Place du Capitole, at Toulouse, anxiously awaiting the opening of the theatre doors. The opera announced was the favourite one of "Guillaume Tell," the part of Mathilde by Mademoiselle Pauline Duveyrier, a young actress who had but recently made her debût upon the stage, but yet by her fine voice and correct musical taste, her beauty and elegance, had already become no inconsiderable favourite with the music-loving and critical population of Toulouse. What rendered her success the more remarkable was, that her name was one quite unknown in the theatrical world, and that, without any previous training in inferior establishments, she had stepped upon the boards of one of the best provincial theatres in France, and by her unquestionable ability, at once secured herself a firm footing. It was understood that she was of respectable family, and had not been originally intended for an actress; but that the sudden death of her father in insolvent circumstances, had compelled her to exert for her support those musical talents which she had previously cultivated for her amusement. She had now been about three months on the Toulouse stage; and although assailed during that time by the various temptations to which her beauty and her position as an actress rendered her peculiarly liable, she had preserved an unblemished reputation, and the extreme correctness of her conduct had been scarcely less matter of comment and admiration than her magnificent voice and her dramatic power.

The doors of the theatre were at length opened, and the pit and galleries instantaneously filled by the crowd that rushed in.

hour that was still to pass, previously to the commencement of the performance, had more than half elapsed, the boxes also began to fill; and when the curtain rose, it would have been difficult to find sitting or standing room for a single person in the whole of the theatre. There was nothing unusual in this crowded state of the house; it was of frequent occurrence when Mademoiselle Duveyrier played, but upon the evening in question a considerable portion of the audience had been attracted to the theatre by other motives than those of admiration of the actress or the opera.

The prima donna, who for several years had had an engagement at the Toulouse theatre, and who still belonged to the company, had deemed herself greatly injured and aggrieved by the triumphant success of Pauline Duveyrier. The defects of her somewhat deteriorated voice and damaged reputation were brought out into strong relief by the fresh tones and perfect propriety of conduct of the débutante, whom the manager had, moreover, caused to replace her in several of the parts she had been long accustomed to sing, and which she thought the most advantageous for the exhibition of her powers. During the first flush of Pauline's success, it would have been in vain to have attempted organising any thing like a cabal against her; but her rival had waited pa

tiently for an opportunity, which she at last thought she had found, of diminishing the daily increasing popularity of the new actress. rich young men, idlers and debauchers by profession, who had been covetous of the notoriety that a liaison with an elegant and admired actress would confer upon them, had thought proper to be deeply offended by the firm, and sometimes contemptuous manner in which Mademoiselle Duveyrier had rejected their advances. While their wounded vanity was still smarting, several of these disappointed aspirants met at a gay supper at the house of Pauline's rival, who, by her sarcastic style of rallying them on their bad success, managed to increase their irritation, until it reached the point at which she had aimed. She then represented Pauline as an artful prude, affecting reserve, so long as she found it advantageous so to do; but who could easily forget her rigid principles when it was necessary to propitiate a manager or secure the favour of a critic. By these and other inuendoes she contrived to set even the unprejudiced portion of her guests against the unsuspecting Pauline; and amidst copious libations of champagne, it was agreed that a grand effort should be made to pull down this new goddess of song from the elevation on which the favour or caprice of the public had placed her. The conspirators arranged their plan of operations, and the following Wednesday, when Mademoiselle Duveyrier was to appear for the first time in the part of Mathilde, was fixed upon for the execution of the scheme.

Accordingly, on the day in question, a formidable band of hardhanded, loud-voiced ruffians, hired at so much a head by the contrivers of the plot, assembled at the theatre-door, and entering with the crowd, stationed themselves in groups in various parts of the pit and galleries. They offered no interruption to the earlier part of the opera, but when Mathilde made her appearance, and before she had sung three bars of her part, she was greeted with a deafening peal of disapprobation. Hissing, whistling, shouting, yelling, resounded from all parts of the house, and the uproar was maintained with a vigour that for some time drowned the applause of the impartial portion of the audience. The young actress, unaccustomed to such a reception, became pale and red by turns, hesitated, trembled, tried to go on, and finally, terrified and distressed by the clamour, was sinking to the ground, when a gentleman, sitting in one of the stage-boxes, sprang forward, caught her in his arms just in time to prevent her falling, and carried her behind the scenes. The curtain immediately fell.

A regular vocal combat now organised itself in the theatre. The caballers continued their roar of disapprobation, although its object was no longer before them; but the majority of the audience responded by an euthusiastic applause that finally triumphed. Some of the most riot

ous of the malcontents were expelled from the house, the others were silenced, and there was a universal cry for the continuation of the opera. The manager came forward and said, "That Mademoiselle Duveyrier was too unwell to sing any more that night, but that a favourite vaudeville should be substituted for the remainder of the opera.' With this the audience were obliged to content themselves.

The individual who had come so opportunely to the assistance of the young actress, was a Spanish gentleman who had been for some time stopping at one of the principal hotels in Toulouse, and who was known by the name of the Señor Leon. After passing the winter in Italy, he

was returning to his own country by way of the south of France, when he chanced to pause a day in the capital of Languedoc, and visiting the theatre, was exceedingly struck by the voice and beauty of Pauline Duveyrier. He made various inquiries about her, and was informed that she was a new actress, very popular, and it was said, of unblemished reputation. He countermanded the post-horses he had ordered for the following morning, and had since that day remained at Toulouse, leading a quiet and retired life, and passing his evenings at the theatre whenever Mademoiselle Duveyrier played. He had secured one of the stageboxes, and every opera night he made his appearance in it while the overture was playing, and remained till the curtain fell upon the last scene of the performance. When Pauline was on the stage, his eyes never once wandered to any other object, but were constantly fixed upon her expressive and beautiful countenance, or following her graceful movements. The actress, on her part, could not well avoid observing the handsome man of foreign and distinguished appearance, who was unremitting in his attendance upon opera nights, and whose gaze, although so earnest, was in no way either offensive or disrespectful. In time a sort of silent acquaintance seemed to spring up between the actress and her assiducus auditor. Involuntarily, unknown indeed to herself, Pauline's first glance upon making her entrée was to the stage-box, where she never failed to read a welcome in the dark, expressive eyes of the Spaniard, although he invariably abstained from joining in the applause lavished on her by the audience.

It is difficult to say how long Leon might have contented himself with thus playing the part of a mute admirer, if the incident already related had not afforded him the opportunity of making Pauline's acquaintance. When he had carried her to her dressing-room, and consigned her to the care of an attendant, he waited behind the scenes till he heard that she was recovered, and then left the theatre. The following day he called at her house, and sent in a request to be allowed to make his personal inquiries concerning her health. It would have been ungracious, if not ungrateful, to have refused to admit him; and although Pauline had, from her very first arrival at Toulouse, declined all visits, upon the plea of her lonely and unprotected position, she could not avoid making an exception in favour of Leon.

If the mere beauty and grace of the actress had made an impression upon the Spaniard, that impression became stronger when he was enabled to judge of her mental perfections and accomplishments. Entirely free from the frivolity and coquetry not uncommon in women of her profession, Pauline was as remarkable for the refinement of her tone and manner, as for the elegance of her mind and the interest excited by her conversation. In the well-bred and intelligent Spaniard, she found one capable of appreciating her, and willing to enjoy her society, without wearying her by professions of attachment, or insulting her by that sort of incense which many men, in his position, would have thought it necessary to offer up on the altar of a young and pretty actress. His visit was prolonged far beyond the usual period of a morning call, without either himself or Pauline being aware of its length, and when at last he rose to depart, he obtained, without difficulty, permission to return upon a future day.

Leon soon became a constant visiter at the house of Mademoiselle Duveyrier, and had many opportunities of observing her correct deport