There is a convenient anatomical theatre, for the prosecution of comparative anatomy; and from one part of the garden, near a fine cedar, planted by Jussieu, a good view of the city of Paris and its neighbourhood presented itself.
In the evening I saw the celebrated Talma in the character of Hamlet. It was but seldom that I could trace much resemblance between the Hamlet of the Théâtre Français and that of our immortal Shakspeare. From its very close similarity, however, in some parts, it must be an adaptation from the English. But it has been necessarily very much altered in order to suit it to the genius of the French stage, which requires pieces of more regular construction, than those of the wildly energetic Shakspeare, and that they should have the three unities, as they are called. In vain I expected the fine opening scene upon the platform. No ghost appeared during the whole performance; and I could find nothing like the original till the soliloquy—"To be, or not to be"—almost literally rendered.
The acting of M. Talma, however, is superior to any thing I have seen in England; and although the ghost is not introduced, yet it is very evident, from M. T.'s gestures, that he is not far off. The piece concludes with the chamber scene, in which Hamlet endeavours to point out to his mother the ghost of her murdered husband—"look where he goes, out of the very portal"—also literally rendered. But there is no Laertes, no Ophelia. The king is deposed. The queen, by the artful and exquisitely acted insinuations and questions of Hamlet, is almost made to confess her guilt, of which her suicide is a proof; and Hamlet ascends the throne of his father. The lady who played the queen is an excellent performer: I believe her name is Duchesnois. She is not young, and is of low stature. Talma is not tall.
Next morning, the 24th, after enjoying the luxury of one of the warm baths, with which Paris abounds, and for which you pay but one franc and a quarter, with something to the attendant for towels, &c., I paid my bill at the hotel, where I had lodged since my arrival, and went with bag and baggage in a cabriolet to my quarters at Boulogne, in order to unbend my mind a while from the fatigue of ever searching after novelties.
And here, my dear friend, I must conclude this long epistle. It can of course give you but little information. I have endeavoured to describe what I saw faithfully; and generally under the impulse of the ideas which they at first, prima facie, created. I must, therefore, necessarily have committed some errors, but none, I think, of much magnitude; these, if you will excuse, and think me not intrusive, at another opportunity I shall continue my narration.
Yours ever.
LETTER III.
From my thatched mud apartment at Tinques, a miserable
village between St. Pol and Arras. May 26, 1816.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
In compliance with your request, I continue my little journal, and shall be glad if it afford you half the entertainment which you have been pleased to say the former part has done; for I fear that the most interesting of my adventures have already been recounted.