THE LAND OF PORK.

BY LEWIS RINGE.

OFF to the west! Ah! well 'tis worth
A trip across the Alleghany,
To see how Yankees compass earth
To make a proselyte or penny.
Such thrifty followers, Daniel Boon

Scarce dreamed of, when, with flag unfurled,
He roamed in hero loneliness,

Knight errant of the wilderness,

And won the land that must be soon
The cornucopia of the world.

Can Speculation enter here?
Ask if the serpent entered Eden;

That glorious garden was no match
(Where crops of knowledge were so dear)
For these free plains-for stock to feed in;
And as for hogs, yon woody patch
Fats-more, or would fat if it had 'em,
Upon the pure delicious mast,
Than ever bristled up to Adam;
And then they multiply so fast,
That if, as devils did of yore,

The modern devils undertake
The whole swine to monopolize,
Dismounting every biped boar,
All other business they'll forsake,
And holy war scarce patronize.

Pork speculation is, of course,
Most tempting of all speculations,
One of the glorious golden streams
The alchemist beheld in dreams,
To find whose long-sought magic source
Was ours, most favored of the nations.

Saint, sage, and sovereign had grown gray
Over their smoking crucibles,

And jeweled crowns had fumed away
Beneath the gold-enchanter's spells.

Our Yankee guessed they'd been mistaken
To let their smoke escape, so he
Caught it, and solved the mystery;
Backward the tide of fortune rolled,
And smoke itself was turned to gold
The moment pork was turned to bacon.

Cincinnati, 1837.

SKETCHES OF PARIS, No. 3.

HAMLET AT THE THEATRE FRANCAIS.

I HAVE just witnessed a representation of Hamlet on the great national stage of France, the stage of the Theatre Français. The piece was announced as from the pen of Ducis, whom we know as the most successful of the French translators of Shakspeare; and it was to be executed by some of the first artistes of the company,—a company in whose ranks was once the great Talma, and of which the most distinguished member at present is Mademoiselle Mars. I shall soon have an opportunity of judging how the English drama. tist is appreciated by the French, thought I, as I entered No. 15 of the Stalles de Balcon. I shall soon be enabled to determine for myself, whether all the waggery I have read be true, of the style in which his plots are mutilated, his ideas caricatured, and his language travestied. At least I shall have one instance to enlighten

me on this subject.

The curtain rose, and before me was an apartment of a palace, into which I was somewhat surprised to see entering King Claudius and Polonius. The King was clad in loosely hanging red vestments. Over his shoulders was flung a black mantle, and his top was surmounted, not by a baby proof of sovereignty, but by a velvet cap, whose loose crown projected forward in the mode called Phrygian at Naples, and which here may be seen only upon the head of a French cook. Polonius was dressed similarly, except that his brow was surrounded by something in the shape of a Turk's turban. I may here remark, that the character of Polonius is as much revolutionized as his dress. He is no more a superannuated, self-conceited

companion of a state. Through his dotage appears nothing to make you smile. He has no dotage, no ludicrous character. He is middle aged, and he talks good, wise advice to you in regular French rhyme.

The majesty of Denmark has been murdered; his place has been partially usurped by the murderer, who is now consulting with Polonius how that place may be permanently secured to him. Thus is he engaged when a noise is heard. Polonius suddenly takes his leave, and the Queen enters. Madame Paradol struck me at once as a very excellent Gertrude. She was brawny and sensual. Her body, her countenance, her voice, her smile, all loudly proclaimed the adultress. I thought that Shakspeare himself would not have moulded his Gertrude otherwise.

After a few moments the King begins to importune her to have their nuptials solemnized. I was a little surprised to find that they were not yet married, and still more when I heard the Queen, in stern round terms, declare that she did not intend to marry. She was filled with remorse at the recollection of her past career in guilt. She was not going to wade deeper in. She was resolved to have Hamlet crowned king. The wrong done the husband was not to be continued over to the son.

"Quand par un crime affreux, je l'ai privé d'un père,
Il est bien juste au moins qu'il retrouve une mère."

The conclusion was certainly a motherly one.
Polonius is instantly
called in, and having received orders to make preparations for
Hamlet's coronation, makes his bow and departs, looking slyly at
the King. Claudius is now advised by his repentant consort in
crime to betake himself as quickly as possible to virtuous courses,
and to become a loyal subject. Before he has time to respond to
this apparently unwelcome suggestion, the Queen waves him away.
Left in solitude, she is going on to congratulate herself upon her
new and virtuous state of heart, when a confidante enters, named
Elvira, to inform her that Norceste, the noble friend of her son, has
just arrived from England. To him, continues Elvira. your son
may reveal the chagrin fatal which alarms you. "Do you think
so?" asks the Queen. "And why should I not?" responds Elvira.
Gertrude then sums up her feelings in the sentiment, that if her son
should die without disclosing said chagrin fatal, nothing remained
for her but to die with him; and so ends the first act. "Il est tout
changé," said I to a Frenchman beside me. "Oui,” replied he,
"c'est arrangé pour la scene Française." "Vraiment,” added I,
"et pour le gout Français."

At the beginning of the second act the preceding personages,

Gertrude and Elvira, re-appear. The Queen now, for the first time, discloses to Elvira her share in the murder of the King, and as she goes on to relate how love was the cause of that foul deed, wishes to heaven, and heaven only knows why, that all her sex were present to hear her. In the course of a tedious narration of remorse, and horror, and crime, she is interrupted by the entrance of Norceste. Him she at once beseeches to inquire into the secret cause of her dear son Hamlet's chagrin. Left alone, Norceste, in whom I recognized a shadow of the original Horatio, queries why his friend has not opened his heart to his mother. He concludes his cogitations by saying that strange suspicions are afloat at court, and that there a great secret is oftentimes no other than a great crime. As he is going out, Voltimond, captain of the guards, meets him, and begs him not to proceed, as the Prince, all trembling, and pale, and wild, was hither rushing, pursued by some invisible vengeance. A sound is heard, a crash, a scream, and Hamlet dashes in, all madly exclaiming

"Fuis, spectre epouvantable,

Porte au fond des tombeaux ton aspect redoutable."

He was dressed in black. His coat,-a sort of frock,—was trimmed throughout with fur, and about his waist circled three or four times a large silken cord. Ligier made a very good French Hamlet, but I am almost sure that the walls of the Theatre Français rang with serious applause of gestures, and attitudes, and tones, and expressions of visage, that at Covent Garden would have excited nothing but roars of laughter. "Do you not see it?" continues Hamlet. "It flies above my head; it clasps my very feet; Je me meurs.' You see no ghost, you hear no ghost. You are startled by no sepulchral voice come up to earth from its dark prison house. You see no form escaped from sulphurous flames for a brief space, till the matins be near. The poor ghost, alas! may not tell his own tale. But at the solicitation of Norceste, Hamlet tells it for him—that is, Hamlet relates to Norceste what his father's spirit related to him. Thus we get at the matter, though in a sort of second-hand way. How tame, and lifeless, and flat was this in comparison with the solemn vigor of a similar narration in the original! I felt myself some of the chagrin which seemed to bear down Hamlet. I felt that the soul of the English bard was not in the scene before me. lt was all Frenchified. The house, however, listened breathlessly. The scene was not without its pathos, and I must not fail to add that here and there among the spectators I discovered a white handkerchief. Happy they! They had their own standard of judging and of enjoying. The work of art before them was in con

formity therewith, and they were deeply impressed. I am not finding fault. Their standards on this subject are different, totally dif ferent, from those of an Englishman or an American. It is impossible, while those different standards are recognized, that we should all be similarly impressed by the same work of dramatic art.

The second act closes with a resolution, by Hamlet and Norceste, to take, as the ghost to the former had suggested, the urn holding his father's ashes from its humble resting place. To make assurance doubly sure of what the spectre epouvantable had related as to the guilt of the royal sinners, Hamlet desires Norceste to narrate in their presence how an English king was recently poignarded at London, and how the misery under which England now groans was caused by ambition, lust, and adultery. He himself will, in the mean time, stand by and watch the effect of said narration. This scene takes places in the next act. Nothing surely was ever more curiously managed than this. Claudius, Gertrude, Hamlet, and Norceste are on the stage. The latter has just stated the fact of the English king's death. Hamlet asks, in a somewhat significant tone, and with a knowing French slang :

Norceste.

Hamlet.
Norceste.

Gertrude.

Norceste.

"Mais, qui soupconne-t-on de cet enorme crime?
Un mortel honoré de la publique estime.
Enfin, qui nomme-t-ou?

Un prince de son ranq

Qu'après lui la naissance appellait à son rang.
Vous a-t-on informé qu'il eut quelque complice ?
Qui *

Hamlet. La reine peut-être ?

En secret

Quel motif donne-t-on d' un aussi grand forfait ?
Norceste. L'amour du diadème, une flamme adultere.
Il n'est point troublé.
Hamlet. (bas a Norceste.)

Non, mais regarde ma mère.”

[bas a Hamlet.

During all this dialogue, Hamlet looks most intensely and dagger-like into the king's features. But the king's features do not blench for an instant. The Queen only seems a little touched. The King coolly says, "Let England alone with her griefs, and mourning, and crime ;" and he concludes with a cut, which, reflecting that the piece first appeared in 1769, may well be called cut à la Française.

"L'Angleterre en forfaits trop souvent fut feconde."

It is at the close of this third act that we get the first glimpse of