is à very pleasing drama: it is a cento of passages from old plays modernized; it is an ingenious plagiarism from beginning to end. The author was a most incorrigible pilferer, but so expert in his art, that we would say to other authors, Go thou and do likewise!' MR KEAN The Times.] December 16, 1817. DRURY-LANE Theatre, MR. KEAN, after an absence of nearly six weeks, owing to serious indisposition, last night resumed his professional duties at this theatre, in the arduous character of Richard the Third. He was received on his appearance with all that warm greeting and enthusiastic applause, which are perhaps the highest meed of histrionic talent, and which are unfailingly called forth by this distinguished actor, after every suspension, however short, of the exercise of his art. This expres sion of good-will was increased, we think, in the present instance, by the recollection that the privation was caused by illness, and that it was possible the stage might have been deprived of one of its greatest ornaments. The acclamations, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, continued for some minutes. Mr. Kean looks somewhat thinner than before his indisposition, but betrayed no deficiency of power; on the contrary, on account probably of our having for sometime past been doomed to witness very inferior performances, he appeared to surpass himself. He exhibited all that energy and discrimination, that faculty of identifying himself with the character he represents, which is to be ranked among the greatest efforts of human talents; he realized our conceptions of a being whose soul 'Not Fate itself could awe.' The fine passages of this piece of acting are well known to the public; to quote them would be to extract the whole play. The conclusion of his career was marked by nearly as much applause as the commencement. The theatre was well filled, notwithstanding the extreme wetness of the evening. KING JOHN The Times.] [December 18, 1817. COVENT GARden Theatre. SHAKSPEARE'S tragedy of King John was acted last night at this theatre. Miss O'Neill performed the part of Constance; and though everything undertaken by this excellent actress must have a large proportion of good in it, we think that she is less successful in this than in most of her other characters: for this, physical causes, her youth for example, may be assigned; and her perfect delineation of Constance is, perhaps, reserved to the maturity of her age and her talents. She did not convey to us that warmth of temper, that susceptibility to grief and anger, which mark this injured Princess. Her speeches on the conclusion of the marriage with Blanch, which admit great variety of expression, were simple declamation, without passion and nearly in the same tone: but we would rather dwell on beauties than defects. Two or three lines at the end of the scene just mentioned made amends for all; when she says, "To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble.' she utters the passage with beautiful feeling, and leaves nothing to be wished. The burst of indignation when Austria endeavours to silence her, subsiding instantly into a tone of the keenest contempt, was no less striking. Her very best effort was on quitting the stage, when, having uttered those pathetic exclamations for the loss of her son, she goes out in all the wildness of despair, as if occupied by no other thought than to seek him through the world. Young was a little too violent in some parts of the character of King John; but, on the whole, it may be considered a fine piece of acting the two scenes with Hubert, and his 'dying scene, were excellent. Faulconbridge, the bastard, is one of Charles Kemble's happiest hits; his manly figure, and martial appearance, well bear him out in his scoffs at the Duke of Austria; he is no sooner knighted, than he seems made for his rank, and leads out Queen Elinor like a lordly gallant.' Some of the nobles of John's court did not convey the idea of much dignity either in their dress or persons: we wish that the managers, who have the power of issuing patents of nobility at pleasure, would consider whether the general effect might not be improved by a little more attention to this point. THE PRESS-COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, AND BENTHAM The Yellow Dwarf.] [January 3, 1818. A DEBATE has been lately going on, in the French House of Commons, respecting the Liberty of the Press. M. Jollivet said, the Liberty of the Press is less necessary in a Representative Government than in any other.' The press' he added, 'is represented as the only instrument by which truth can be made known; but the passions of men are too impetuous, to permit the Press that liberty which some demand. The real national representation is in the King; 1-the legitimate inheritance of his Crown, from whence all powers and honours are derived, fixes there, with the destinies of the people. This is the primitive representation, from which all others emanate. There is the sacred depot of sovereignty. The powers established by the Charter are only the means of that sovereignty, for the dispensation of order and justice. We must then leave out of the question this pretended influence of the Liberty of the Press upon our representative Government, in favour of the branch called the Democratic. We must reject principles which can never return in France. By this course we may perhaps lose some commentaries upon the rights of man, but all classes of society will find their repose in it.' So says M. Jollivet; and so sings a modern bard :— 'Kiuprili-Had'st thou believ'd thine own tale, had'st thou fancied Thyself the rightful successor of Andreas, Would'st thou have pilfer'd from our school-boys' themes These shallow sophisms of a popular choice? What people? How convened? or, if convened, Must not the magic power that charms together In its majestic channel, is man's task And the true patriot's glory! In all else Men safelier trust to Heaven, than to themselves When least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds Where folly is contagious, and too oft Even wise men leave their better sense at home Coleridge's Zapolya. Whether M. Jollivet, the French speaker, was one of the Orators of the Human Race in the time of Robespierre, we do not know; but this we know, that Mr. Coleridge was at that time delivering Conciones 1 In this sort of representative Government the utility of the Press seems by no means superseded. ad populum in a tone of mob-sycophancy, the height and heat of which could, it seems, only be qualified by the doctrines of Divine Right and Passive Obedience. The above exquisite morceau of political logic, and dramatic recantation of the author's popular harangues, was intended for representation at Drury-Lane Theatre, and was one of the passages pointed out, if we are to believe Mr. Coleridge, as a reason for the rejection of this spurious offspring of his loyal Muse. Mr. Southey has not yet given us a poetical version of the true Jus Divinum. We should like to know what he says to this speech of M. Jollivet-Content or Not Content-and whether this was the result he anticipated when he so sweetly and loudly, about three years ago, invited France restored and shaking off her chain' to join in his (Mr. Southey's) triumphal song, 'Glory to God on high, Deliverance to Mankind. Can that laurel wreathe which adorns his brows (if it still adorns them) any longer hide or prevent those blushes, deep and lasting, which should suffuse his once well-meaning face for having been the shameful dupe of a cozenage so shameful? As to Mr. Wordsworth, another of these heroic deliverers, he is a full solemne man,' and you cannot get much out of him. But we should like to hear his opinion-Aye or No-of M. Jollivet's allied notions of liberty and the rights of man. Is this sort of legitimate clapping down under the hatches the deliverance for which he mouthed out deep-toned Odes and Sonnets? Is this repose, the repose of lasting slavery and avowed, bare-faced annihilation of the rights of human nature, the consummation devoutly to be wished, which kindled in him so much disinterested zeal against all his old friends and feelings? If he were to say so, the very echoes of his favourite mountains, with thousand-fold reverberation,' would contradict him. But he says nothing. He is profoundly silent. He will not answer Mum to our Budget. From the elevation of his former well-timed enthusiasm against tyrants and conquerors, he slid into a place: and he will never rise out of it by any ill-timed intemperance. Snug's the word. St. Peter is well at Rome; and Mr. Wordsworth is attached to the Excise. What is it to him, seated on Rydal Mount, what M. Jollivet, a prating Frenchman, says to that poor creature, Louis XVIII? It is enough for Mr. Wordsworth that he signs his stamped receipts and distributes them he is not bound, by his office, to subscribe to M. Jollivet's doctrines, or to circulate them in this country. He is a customhouse officer, and no longer a citizen of the world. He keeps himself quiet, like the philosopher of old, lest the higher powers should hear him. If he were to mutter a syllable against any one act of legitimate despotism, he knows (in his sleeve) that not all his odes on Hoffer and Schill, and the Cortes, or even to the King, would save him one hour. He is wise. After having endorsed the accommodation bills of the Allied Sovereigns on liberty and independence, with a pen which ought to have been sacred to humanity, he now leaves it to the people of France, Spain, Italy, to us, to the world, to take up these dishonoured forgeries, and will not utter a word of resentment or indignation, or contempt, against those who have made him a poor accomplice in a fraud upon mankind! This sort of shuffling on the side of principle, and tenaciousness on the side of power, seems to be the peculiar privilege of the race of modern poets. The philosophers, if not much wiser, appear to be honester. Some of these had been taken in, but they want to be let out. They declare off in time to save at least their own characters, and will not sign and seal a dateless bargain to all-engrossing despotism,' when she unfolds the long dark scroll of her rotten parchment bonds to them, and they see it stretching out even to the crack of doom.' They had got into a bad house, it is true, thinking, though the owners were the same, they had changed their calling, in company with an old bawd masked, who pretended to have just escaped being robbed and ravished, if not murdered. They were proud of such an opportunity of shewing their gallantry. But as soon as the old lady pulled off her mask of Legitimacy, and shewed herself the same, that is, that was, and is to be,' our philosophers went to the window, threw up the sash, and alarmed the neighbourhood; while the poets, either charmed, with the paint and patches of the hag, or with her gold and trinkets, put a grave face upon the matter, make it a point of conscience, a match for life-for better or worse, stick to their filthy bargain, go to bed, and by lying quiet and keeping close, would fain persuade the people out of doors that all is well, while they are fumbling at the regeneration of mankind out of an old rotten carcase, and threatening us, as the legitimate consequence of their impotent and obscene attempts, with the spawn of Bible and Missionary Societies, Schools for All, and a little aiery of children, with a whole brood of hornbooks and catechisms, a superfetation more preposterous than that of Mrs. Tofts, the rabbit-breeding lady in Hogarth.-Mr. Bentham was one of the philosophers who were so taken in by the projects of the Holy Alliance, but who did not chuse to continue so with his eyes open. He had lent an ear to the promises of kings. He thought tyrants had taken a sudden fancy to the abstract principles of |