BARTLEY.
Is the world sufficiently alive to the worth of BARTLEY? has his universal usefulness blinded them to his merits ? because he plays
nothing ill, do they forget that he does sonic things wonderfully well ? If he were capricious, and gave himself airs, would be be deemed a star of greater magnitude ?—We entertain a deep im pression of his merits, and know not what man of his bulk is to be matched against him. He is identified with the English Operahouse, and people expect to meet him on the stage, just as they calculate on finding the boxlieeper on the stairs : thus his reputa tion is mixed up with this theatre, and the world forgets to individualize. But if he and his house were to be parted, how many
stout men would it require to fill the place he left empty ! how wide would be the breach through which he retreated—how vacant the breast of Mr. ARNOLD, who now nourishes him in his heart of hearts ! Mighty would be the loss. What a respectability does the weight of his character confer on this little house ! how he compensates for the want of a large company ! single-handed, how he fills the public eye !—Busy, bustling BARTLEY! long may you spin your mortal teetotum on these pleasant boards. With what a whirr he bounces on them ! how dazzling the shine of his happy face ! his chuckle of delight how genuine, how earnest, how full of true kindheartedness. Wrath—hot, intemperate, pampered wrath—is also his forte : heis volcanic—his cheeks seem bursting; his eyes glare from the bottom of a well of fat ; and his combustible body jumps and skips as if it were a trifle—a mere pea upon the pipe-stopper of his angry breath. In a manly and generous part who stands his ground with more firmness ?—the solidity of his frame indicates the integrity of his soul; his fatted calves swell with honest pride. And who like him can play the Alderman ?—not your old-fashioned scarlet velvet Alderman, with the gout and huge waistcoat-flaps—a creature that existed perhaps, but who is now no more ; but your well-fed, good-natured, ignorant cit, with a white hat and nankeen trousers—the man of small jokes and small trips, an easy loose hanger-on upon a business which has made his fortune, and who, determined to enjoy himself, lives between London, Brighton, and the Isle of Wight, and his house on Stamford-hill. This is the Alderman of BARTLEY; and as in all his parts, here is true substantial reality. BARTLEY always looks like a fat, good-natured man, who has been pushed on to the stage out of the street : there is no sham, no make-believe, no waiting for his cue ; he is always in the piece—the piece is in him, of him, and wound round about him like silk about the cocoon. We like to see BARTLEY I00 in a quiet character—a plain sensible man of the world : he talks like one having understanding ; he is clearly a person with a head as well as a tail. In such parts he decorates a sentence with a remarkable twirl of his cane—a pointed flourish we never saw before, and which we believe to be inimitable. On Wednesday. last, we visited the house that BARTLEY supports, under an expectation of seeing a new piece : the novelty did not make its appearance, but our old favourite did ; and we rejoiced in his good spirits, his high condition, and excellent wind.
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