Tom Jones and Mrs. Miller.

Partridge at the theater.

other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage. 'O, la, sir,' said he, I perceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of any thing, for I know it is but a play; and if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm, at such a distance and in so much company; and yet, if I was frightened, I am not the only person.' 'Why, who,' cries Jones, 'dost thou - take to be such a coward here, besides thyself?' 'Nay, an you may call me coward, if you will; but if that little man there, upon the stage, is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life.'. . . Partridge sat with his eyes partly fixed on the ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions that succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeded likewise in him.

"At the conclusion of the scene, Partridge says to Jones, 'It is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them; not that it was the ghost that surprised me neither; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.' 'And dost thou imagine, then,' cries Jones, 'that he was really frightened?' 'Nay, sir,' said Partridge, did not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were,

His opinion of an actor.

just as I should have been, had it been my own case.'

"Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which, Jones asked him which of the players he liked best. To this, he answered, with some appearance of indignation, 'The king, without doubt.' 'Indeed!' answered Mrs. Miller, 'you are not of the same opinion as the town; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player that was ever on the stage.' 'He the best player!' cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer; why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man—that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking, madam; though I never was at a play in London, yet I have seen acting before, in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his words distinctly, and half as loud again as the other. Anybody may see he is an actor.'

In this excellent representation of character, is seen the effect produced upon the ingenuous mind, by one who successfully enters into the spirit of what he says;

The speaking of Garrick.

Partridge as a critic.

who exnibits the same feeling and passion which would be produced upon one who should meet in real life what he experiences in the play. In this art, Garrick preeminently excelled. In his speaking, we see the effect of personating with fidelity the character which he represents. His words, the tones of his voice in harmony with the look, the features, the whole person,* speak to us, and we are made to feel all the emotions that succeed each other in his mind, as the great poet himself first conceived them. Partridge, in the simplicity of his unsophisticated nature, is unable to keep up the distinction between fiction and reality. He trembles when he sees the little man upon the stage tremble. Like the child who weeps and sobs over the story of the Children in the Wood, he is moved with sorrow, as though the play were a passage in real life. For this reason, his judgment of the relative merits of the speakers is false. To his simple and untutored feelings, the performer who acts as though every thing in the scene were real, seems to him to show no skill or art, and exhibits no special excellence deserving of praise; but only speaks just as any one would speak who is afraid, or pleased, or angry. But the mouthing performer who personates the king, and speaks his words half as loud again as the others, and is the person whom we never meet in life, is to

Skill.

Masterpieces of eloquence.

him the great actor. The agitation and trembling of Partridge are a lasting tribute to the eloquence and power of Mr. Garrick; but his criticisms must ever excite merriment for their simplicity.

We learn from this illustration, that to enter into the spirit of what we say, requires no seeming effort, but, on the contrary, the greatest ease. If culture of the voice induces a style like that displayed by the performer of the king's part, it can not be too much despised and discarded. To one who has not a mind capable of understanding the thought and feeling of an author, vocal training may produce this effect. The culture which we have advocated is not the universal panacea for imperfect delivery. It only operates favorably upon those who have souls to appreciate feeling and beauty. If it be made to serve as the curb to our passions, if it enables us to bring the voice, with all its energy and power, under complete control of a correct taste, if it yield us that fruit which is denominated skill, then it deserves our highest commendation.

It should be the aim in all our practice, to secure ease and simplicity in the style of speaking. Some of the greatest efforts of human genius, which are looked upon as masterpieces of eloquence, are conceived in the plainest style. Perhaps history furnishes no better example of the truth of this princi

The death of Cæsar.

The bloody mantle.

ple, than is presented by the poet in the funeral oration of Antony over the corpse of Cæsar. All Rome was in commotion. Cæsar had been stabbed, while sitting upon his throne in the senate-house in the presence of that august assembly, a Roman Senate. All business was stopped. The people were filled with consternation and horror at the perpetration of the bloody deed. Under these circumstances, An

tony, the friend of Cæsar, carries the dead body, just as the conspirators had left it, to the forum, and in presence of a vast concourse of the people speaks in his funeral. He recounts the martial deeds of Cæsar, and what he has done for the greatness and the glory of Rome; and when he tells them of the love they once bore to Cæsar, his heart swells and chokes his utterance. He descends from the pulpit; raises up the dead body of his friend; shows them the rents in the bloody mantle; and tells them of the first time ever Cæsar put it on. It was a summer's evening in his tent, after that bloody day on which he had gained one of those signal victories which were the glory and the pride of Rome. He tears aside the bloody mantle and.

"Shows them sweet Cæsar's wounds, poo., poor, dumb mouths, And bids them speak for him."

He tells them of the will of Cæsar, and how he had