Colored News. — London, England, 1855-08-11 00:00:00

A UGUST 11, 1855.] Artlitills. History of my Life. By George Sands, Feuilleton of La Presse. MADAME DUDEVANT'S work has now been before the town for some time, but her snatches of life and real character charm us more than ever as she proceeds. How glad we are that she donned male attire, since disguised as a student, she `• mobbed it" among a party of intelligent young Berri chons, and learned Paris by seeing all that men see, by hear ing all that men hear, by plunging wherever men plunge, for the sake of getting artist education—of getting it cheap— and of getting it without being misunderstood or molested by the husband whose children she brought to her garret home, there to enjoy maternal care and pious training !—The pseudonyme George Sand, which Madame Dudevant assumed, was adopted by her in all humility, and in no revolutionary assumption of the style and sympathies of Kotzebue's as sassin. Strange, indeed, are her details of Parisian life ; how attentively ought one to listen to her account of a regu lar French emeute. She was in the gardens of the Luxem bourg with her daughter when the street battle of Cloitre Saint-Mery broke out—gained her garret with difficulty— pacified the little girl who was screaming with terror—and out-watched part of the night on her balcony. That was the night when fifteen of the seventeen insurgents who kept the bridge of the Hotel Dien were surpristd by a column of the National Guards,—and when " fifteen of these unfortu nate creatures," says M. Louis Blanc, in his Histoire de Dix Ans,' " were cut to pieces and flung into the Seine,"— "The d•ty of the 6th of June was a day of awful solemnity, even seen from a point far above it, as I saw it. All circulation was forbidden ; the troops guardea the bridges and the entrance of the adjacent streets. From ten o'clock in the morning until the end of the execution, the long perspective of deserted qunis had, in the broad sunshine, an aspect belonging to a city of the dead,—as if cholera had carriod thence its last inhabitant. The soldiers who guarded the issue of the streets looked like phantoms, stricken with amazement. Motionless, and (as it were) petrified,—ranged all the way down the parapets, they did not vary by words or gesture the physiognomy of that dreary solitude. No living beings were to be seen, at certain moments of that day, save the swallows, skimming the waters with a restless rapidity, as if that unwonted dead calm had frightened them. Hours passed—hours of that grim silence, only broken by the shrill cries of the martins wheeling around the precincts of Notre Dame. Then, in an instant, the birds would hide themselves in the old towers, and the soldiers shoulder their arms, which had been piled on tne bridges. Orders were given to them iu a low voice. Their ranks opened to admit bands of folk on horseback, crossing each other—these pale with anger—those broken down and bleeding. Then the shut-up people came out to the windows and on the roofs, eager to plunge a look into the scenes of horror about to take place in the Cite. The sinister sound had begun. The rounds of musketry, doing duty for funeral peal, became regular. Sitting on the balcony, and amusing Solange in the room to prevent her looking out, I could count every assault and every repulse. Presently burst out the cannon. Seeing, as I did, the bridge crowded with litters and biers, which came back from the Cite, leaving a red track behind them, I conceived that an insurrection to be so murderous must have been important ; but the firing died away. * * Then, again, came a time of silence,—then the inhabitants came down from the house tops into the streets,—and the porters of the houses, those expressive caricatures of Property in alarm, began to cry to one another with an air of triumph, ' It's over now ! '—while the con querors, whom they had only looked at before, came back again in triumph. The king made the round of the quaffs. The citizens and the soldiers fraternized at the street corners. The army had been in earnest. It had, for an instant, believed that a second July revolution was come." Few who read even the foregoing paraphrase will deny that the scene is painted with the hand of an artist skilled in dark tragedy. But these student days had their comedy as well as their tragedy. In the company of her playfellows, Ma dame Dudevant made some curious acquaintances, and en countered some amusing adventures. One day, for instance, she took a last womanly leave of the English Convent, where she had so narrowly escaped becoming a nun, in her former search for extraordinary sensations—from the Convent she went home, got into her manly boots, and joined her com rades, " the boys" of Berri, in a party, to see Debureau— the Grimaldi of Paris within and without the barriers. Listen to her description of a really clever clown : " Gustave Papet who was the rich man, the milord of our Berrichon association, treated all the pit to barley-sugar; and after wards, as we left the theatre famished, he took three or fuur of us off with him to supper at the Vendanges de Bourgogne. On a sudden, the fancy seized him to a,k Deburcau, whom he did not know the least in the world. Back went Papet into the theatre, found Debureau taking off his clown's clothes in the cage which served him for a dressirg•room, took him by the arm and brought him to us.—Deburcau was charming in his manners. He would not allow himself to be tempted by the smallest drop of champagne, being afraid, said he, on the score of his nerves, and having need of the most complete calmness for his acting I have never seen an artist more serious, more conscientious, more religious in his art. He loved it with passion, and spoke of it as of a serious matter; speaking of himself, at the same time, with an extreme modesty. He studied without ceasing, and never became weary of study, in spite of the eon' inual and even extravagant exercise. He was not anxious that the admirable finesse of his countenance and his originality of composition should be appreciated by artists, or seized by persons of lively spirits. He cared only to satisfy him self and to realize his fancies ; and these fancies, which appeared so spontaneous, were studied before-hand with extraordinary care. I listened to him with great attention. He did not attitudinize in his talk ; and I saw in him in spite of the buffoonery of his walk, one of those great artists who deserve the title of master." In the course of her very entertaining book, our fair authoress gives a very extraordinary, not to say laughable, account of the perils which beset success in the literary world, inadvertently coinciding with every word which has fallen from Charles Dickens on the same subject. Her money was begged from her as fast as it was made, her leisure was laid waste by malignant or rapacious intruders. Priests forced themselves in, anxious to convert her,—misun derStood females entreated her to get them engaged at theatres,—social reformers bombarded her with schemes for the renovation of society,—poets of the people came and begged, threatening that if money was not sent they would commit suicide. One of these, by the way, when benefi cently sought out in his garret gave no sound or sign of life,—and on the door being burst open by Madame Dude uant and her emissary, the wretch was found eating sausages! Then, there were English tourists who arrived to scoff, to stare, or to sympathise (note-book in hand),—some of whom she mystified by saying unintelligible things to them. Never, in short, have the pains of notoriety in authorship and art heen tabulated with more animated earnestness than by our autobiographer. We earnestly recommend a perusal to our readers. THE COLORED NEWS. A Handbook of Dorking. Willis, London, 1855. WE notice this amusing little book chiefly because we are attracted to it by the oddity of the notices and puff bills which are sewn up with it, giving its prefatory appearance a protean aspect and chamelion color, which we certainly did not ex pect to see in an otherwise unpretending little volume. It is said at fairs that the sport on the outside is more amusing meet than the spectacle within. So it is with the sheets which our eyes whon we open the Handbook. Among the advertise ments to which we allude, is one announced by "W.Batchelar," who is an "undertaker" in Dorking, and probably finds his vo cation a sinecure in a place famed for its pure air, that he " does every description of horticultural work ;" whereby may be meant that he not only coffins the man, but will look to the flowers on his grave, and that, as his advertisement has it, " on the most approved principle and on the lowest possible terms." Old Fuller tells us that Dorking was, and we believe it still is, renowned for its " box," and it is clear that "W. Batchelar" deals in two sorts,—makes one, clips the other, and sees to the safe position of each in its mother earth. But there is a greater wit than the coffin-maker and flower-raiser in Dorking. See how one George Wicks an nounces himself :—" George Wicks, Town Crier, Dorking ; Surgeon to the Parasol and Uubrella Hospital, Broken bones carefully set ; joints neatly mended ; in fact, the whole frame undergoing a speedy restoration in less than twenty four hours. N. 8.," adds witty Wicks, " German, French, English, and Itatiau patients taken in and attended to daily by a native." This is as facetious as the card of a literary tailor in Edgware-road, on which it was announced, to the perplexity of natives and the despair of foreigners, that he manufactured " slap-up kicksis, kept by an artful dodge from the knee." The other advertisements are rather curious than witty. As, for instance, the hairdresser sells eggs ; one hatter deals in gutta-percha soles, and is a tailor to boot ; and another not only unites the two callings, but vends fiddle strings. We further learn by these announcements that Her Majesty's cameo-engraver lives in Dorking, and that his name is Nicholson. There is evidently a great deal of beer drank in the locality, and probably much hilarious breaking of punch-bowls and tumblers, for the brush-maker not only sells but mends both. Then William Watts, the rope-maker, thanks his friends for a support which the article he produces is so well able to give in return. The landlord of the " Bull" buys and sells that, and all other sorts of cattle, "on the most liberal terms." That useful functionary the chimney sweeper also offers to procure " live bait,"—and that no one may suppose that he alludes to the attractive faces for which Dorking has a reputation, the ramoneur emphatically prints it " Live Bait, for fishing, to be had on the shortest notice." The barbers seem to be jokers, and they probably might have announced of their clients as the grocers do of their coffee, namely, that each is " roasted daily on the premises." A man-milliner advertises that " Ladies residing at a distance are waited on by Mr. D." Is he ungallant enough to de cline attending upon ladies at his very door, like the Glasgow mercer, who told an angry female customer, when she com plained that he would not come to her in her carriage, adding that she was " the Bishop's lady," that he would not so attend her even if she were the bishop's wife ! Then we have the advertisement of a second undertaker in Dorking, who informs his friends that his " goods are let on hire ;" and, as graves may be hired, too, for a specified period, per haps there is nothing incongruous in the intimation of the undertaker that he lets out his goods. Some of these petites qffiches are also rather curiously emphasised,—and one of them is at once so highly moral and supremely literary as to warrant all the attention we have devoted to this portion of the book. A brace of chemical Adelphi inform the public that, with respect to the preparing of prescriptions, they are " satisfied that the moral responsibility of the Compounder is but little inferior to the Prescriber of Medicines, and that the skill of the Physician is of no avail uuless carried out by the conscientious care and practical skill of the person who compounds the prescription." In short, the chemist is to the physician what the blower is to the organ-player. Alto gether, the Handbook is really amusing, and will repay perusal despite our jokes. Anna Clayton ; or, the Mother's Trial. A Tale of Real Life. Low & Co. FROM some little experience in novel reading, we can assert that the great majority of stories professing to be of " real life" might be more truly called tales of Bedlam. We have seldom read "a story of real life" without feeling thankful that both the scenes and the people were safely shut up be tween two boards, bearing on their back a gilded and lettered warning to the wary reader not to meddle further with the " realities" within. ' Anna Clayton' is the reprint of a very vulgar American story, intended to warn the world against the wickedness of Catholics in general, and of Catholic priests especially. It is one of the coarsest stories of this kind we have met with, and has not even the redeeming quality of being amusing. Some of the scenes are laid in England, and the English priests are made to talk a peculiar dialect, composed of American provincialisms, Irish peculiarities, and the remains of murdered grammar. Bernaldi, the family confessor, after kidnapping two children to confine them in a monastery, in order to appropriate their fortune to the Church, is made thus to address the little boy on consigning him to " Father Francis," with a very intelligible hint to ill-use him : "No more o' your pulling round me, you young brnt ! I've had enough of you, 1 hope As I hated your vile heretic mother, so do I hate yon;—and now you have got to smart for all the bother you've 'been to me ! Yes, and that little, pale-faced wretch of a sister of yours has got to take it, now I reckon ! We'll see who's master round here now !" We should think this style of authorship would be undertaken on very moderate terms, and no doubt it has been, hut whatever the remuneration paid for it here or in America, it is so much good money thrown away. A Quaker lady, at Southport, in her 100th year, has made 20 purses by knitting this year, and is going to sell them for the benefit of the poor. Her name is Mary Wright, and she some times preaches amongst the Friends. One purse of her making has been sent to the Queen, as a present from a lady of 100 summers. Another person at Southport, Mrs Hodge, is in her 95th year, and is in very good health. i4tatrirals. THIS disgusting, not to say revolting mass of depravity and im morality called Jack Sheppard, has recently re-appeared at most of the minor Theatres, despite the reported interdictton of the authorities, who still snfler it to be paraded in the bills of almost every suburban place of entertainment, as " the only version" licensed by the Lord Chamberlain," and the consequence is that every gallery has been filled nightly to an overflow by juvenile pupils of a bad school, who having read the pernicious trash in cheap editions of Ainsworth, are delighted at the opportunity thinn afforded them to imbibe the poison through the medinin of their ears and eyes, and are in absolute raptures with the player people who are kind enough to "teach the young idea how to steal' upon the most reasonable terms, and by express permission of that censorial enigma the licenser of plays. Plays we admit, are a blessing and a bane. A blessing when they inculcate lessons of morality and virtue a bane when they pander to the morbid and unnatural tastes of sensuality and thieves. It will be seen by reference to the theatrical advertisements in the papers announcing the evening performances at the various places of public amusement, that this objectionable piece is actually being played at two-thirds of them. What we would ask is the meaning of this violation of the law. Are we to understand that the drama of Jack Sheppard is acting in defiance of the Lord Chamberlain, or that his officials have received instructions not to interfere for the present with the amusements of the people. We have heard it asserted in more than one theatre, that the authorities had rescinded their interdict—in fact that they do not dare to stop the nightly representation of the drama, its patrons watch their opportunity and assemble in some public thoroughfare to hoot and intimidate the Lord Chamberlain. Is this possible? Will that sapient personage who makes bother enough about an accidental curse or an exclama tory appeal to the deity when discovered in an author's manu scripts, interpose his authority to stop the performance of a play which has exerted a wide-spread, a lasting and a contaminating influence over the juvenile members of that order, which, not exactly coming under the precise denomination of "industrial," are yet, far, we hope very far removed from criminal. In con demning this abortion. and in declaring it altogether, a dainty dish totally unfit to place before the youth of either sex, we shall be acquitted of being hypercritical, for from the first scene in which this precocious thief steals the portrait of Lady Trafford, to his escape from the cells of Newgate ; in the last scene his actions belie his words—despite cunningly-contrived bits of clap trap sentimentality with which the dialogue is interlarded—the entire play from the beginning to the end is a market which must and will ultimately supply the requisite drafts to the hulks and the colonies. Throughout the progre::s of the drama all his actions and his language, bring him to the level of what he really is—a thief and a vagabond. Are we then to allow the re-production of this nuisance and remain passive. What is its intent ? what are its scenes and characters ? Can any possible instruction be conveyed to the youthful mind through the bellowing: of a great big burly fellow, who has nothing more elegant or intelligent to communicate than that he has a "a no•e, a nose, a jolly red nose." But this—even trashy and sickening as it is, is less revolting to feelings of decency than the intimation "in a box of the stone jug I was born," with which confession the hero conveys to his listeners the fact of his having been brought up in a prison, varying the story of his birth, parentage and education, with some such jargon as " nix my dolly:pal.s fake away," which in plain Englishmeans, literal instructions to his companions to steal anything they can lay their hands upon. We do not know whether this latter song is sung in all the versions recently played, but it has become so identified with the taste and inclinations of the lower orders, that no repre sentation can be said to be perfect without it, and if it omitted it is as regularly called for as " Hut Codlings" or " Tippitty wyehett," at Christmas. It is not alone to Jack Sheppard that we object. We enter our protest against any play or melodrama which elevates the highwaymen or the robber, the burglar or the bully to the position of a hero. Yet such are the heroes of the Jack Sheppard school, and men, and women too, are found to enact them, women ! our very gorg rises at the idea. How offensive to delicacy it is when we see it announced that ladies ( ! ) " unsex" themselves and pander to the rabble of the galleries. By the by, it is not the masses only that patronized the performance of this disreputable drama on its original appearance, when night after night, and season after season, the greatest performers of histronic art vied with each other as to who could best pourtray the whole crew of blackguards. The diseased tendency towards scenic representations of murder and robbery—of bold ruffianism and exulting crime, of repulsive brutality and indecent buffonery, is not to be passed over without a comment. The tale that finds its way from the table of a fashionable author to the boudoir of the equally fashionable reader, finds its way also by the medium of dramatic .adaptation to the minor playhouses of the metropolis, the resort of the ignorant and the unwashed, and if the denizen of the east is not quite so quick in detecting the sunny side of the picture as the aristocrat of the west, you will find him quite as expert in devouring the poisonous horrors which are exposed to view iu the shade. At a word we would banish from our stage at once and for ever the monstrosities, deformities and theatrical abominations which still keep possession of it—those maudlin, yet dangerous dramas which exalt guilt and even invest crime and adultery with a palliative charm, the (Stranger to wit.) Do any of our readers recollect the impiety, blasphemy we may term it—of a thing called Frankenstein, in which th e pl a y er i s ma d e to usurp the functions of the deity—infusing vitality and life into a creation of his own. Can they have forgotten that revolting horror entitled the Vanipyre, the plot of which rested upon the gout of the prin cipal character, who had an unnatural and horrible thirst for blood—human blood —and how he was made to " sup full oft horrors " uightly in the pre s e nce o f f as hi ona bl e an d d e li g ht e d audiences. And still more recently, only a season or so since, a the Surrey Theatre, which once put forth.tolerable claim to re spectability, we witnessed a domestic drama, in which the great plot consisted of a deluge of blood, which fell upon a table from a room above, where a bona fide traveller has just been murdered, and which for pure disgust stands, we should say, without parallel in the long list of brutal excrescences misnamed dramatic novelties. This appalling incident it should be recollected, was represented at the Surrey Theatre—not at the Victoria—there they do this sort of thing with impunity; but at a decent place of public resort where it was performed to the intelligent members who filled the boxes and pit of what we willingly confess we always considered a well conducted and highly respectable theatre. Now if the gods of the Surrey are formed of persons who contribute to the perpetuation of Jack Sheppard and Bill Sykes, and will repair to the theatre over and over again to see either of them, what are we to say of the pit and the boxes that positively applauded the startling effect produced by the sudden appearance and sanguinary shower of blood. The best lesson is example, and the Lord Chamberlain, who objects to a play which disapectates a king, passes a drama rife with real blood, and a catalogue of horrors. He therefore must be held responsible for the conse quences.