THE STRANGER—YOUNG AND MISS PHILIPS.

THE Stranger is so very a German, that it would be difficult to account for his popularity in England, but for the recollection of SIDDONS and the sight of YOUNG. The characters are unreal, the situations unlikely, and the whole sicklied over with sentiment not agreeable to our insular taste. There is an ostentation of goodness and charity which is alone enough to discomfit mere English nature ;—one conceives a sort of pique at the virtues of Adelaide and the Stranger, which is more justifiable than that of the Athe nian at the modest merit of ARISTIDES. They are obtrusive, and are too evidently designed for effect. It was a characteristic achievement of a German sentimentalist, to set about conquering antipathy to one of the foulest moral crimes, by tricking it out with the finest sensibility and the most exquisite benevolence. The cause of morality, however, is not indebted to KOTZEBUE for an exploit which tends to invest adultery with charms ; and declining virtue will have oftener been propelled on its downward path by contemplating the redeeming virtues and ultimate fidelity of the fair criminal, than fortified by the sight of her intermediate wretchedness. The humour of the piece is not more sound or genuine than the sentiment. Mr. Solomon with his foreign correspondence, and Peter with his snivelling simplicity, are melancholy mirth-makers ; though FARREN is profuse of grimace, and HARLEY is a droll something worth laughing at. The copy-book is a stroke beyond one's hope even of German absurdity ;—the idea of a steward's offering to show a noble guest the pot-hooks of a cub of twenty, exemplifies what the Germans can in the way of humour. Improbability, another element of the German drama, stares you in the face ; and never more than when Baron Steinfort dreams of engaging a misanthropic recluse to advocate his suit with the fair housekeeper, merely for the purpose of bringing on an interview for which the author had three entire acts to prepare in a more suitable manner. The interview itself is rather laughable than pathetic : because you anticipate the result with the same certainty that you expect the report when a gun is presented,—and it goes off accordingly. "The Stranger cries ' Oh !' Mrs. Haller cries Ah !' "—in other words, she faints, and he bolts ;—it is this, no more.

The defects of the drama do but teach us to respect the more the merits of the performers, who reconcile incongruities, and turn fiction into reality. In the inky suit, pallid face, somewhat impaired form, and dark countenance of YOUNG, one confesses a propriety so exquisite, that, as the gods are occasionally moved by the sight of a moon and a glistering cascade more than usually narral, so oneis prompted to applaud the mere garb and exterior of the actor. The veriest antijacobinical scoffer at German sentimentality must needs compose himself into a quiet and decent attention to what is to ensue. The mourning hue of his habiliments gives you to surmise that the dejection reigning in his air arises from the loss of some beloved object by death ; till his cold, severe, and suspicious tone, informs you better, and reveals a more cankering, irremediable wound. The mixture of misanthropy and tenderness—the chimera of a German imagination—seems nothing but natural. The brusqueness of the actor's manner and voice convinces you, like the ringing sound of sterling coin, of the sincerity of his morbid feelings, and shows a breast at war with itself and with the world ; whilst the kindliness which ever and anon breaks through the moroseness that has incrusted the heart, is betrayed in accents so truly and finely toned, as makes one speculate, like Francis, on the grievousness of the wrong that could

have warped so affectionate a disposition. A quiet melancholy dignity of action, and a sad solemnity of expression, become alike the person and features of the actor, and the circumstances of the character he sustains. He is the image of a settled sorrow, which seeks no consolation in sympathy, but for that reason commands it

only the more irresistibly. YOUNG is very much and very deservedly

applauded for the indignant emphasis with which he at last relates the story of his wrongs—" Another friend—a villain ! to whom I was attached heart and soul ; whom I had assisted with my means, and promoted by my interest,—this friend seduced my wife !'The mention of the injury, however, seems to us to constitute the

natural climax of the passion ; but YOUNG rises in vehemence as

he proceeds, and ends in a burst, which the audience, who like nothing better than to be well berattled about the ears, applaud to the skies—" Oh! what are chains or death, compared," &c. This may be perfectly correct ; but the more subdued indications of internal agony are more omnipotent over some. There is a passage, where—and but for once—he unbends a moment, and seems to ask your sympathy, which moves one in a way to make a man ashamed, if there were any shame in being so moved. It is where he says to his faithful follower,—" Yet share this consolation with me—my sufferings are unmerited." In the last scene he manifests a combination of delicacy, feeling, generosity, resigned sorrow, and unpretending dignity, that would break through the barriers of the most strongly-fortified bosom—" What would you with me, Ade laide ?"—are the introductory words—the "open Sesame," that summons you to surrender ; and they who have seen this perfect piece of acting will need no more to remind them of the mingled sensations which overcame them when they witnessed this portion of it.

We turn to the lady. It is impossible to see Miss PHILIPS with indifference ; and her performance the other night convinces us that, however ill adapted she may be to a part, she has taste and power enough to save even a sensitive witness from discomfiture. But if ever there was a manifestation of execrable judgment —we are confident it was not her own judgment—it has been testified in compelling Miss PHILIPS into the character of Mrs. Haller. Though above the common height of women, she has the opening freshness of the girl: innocence sits on her forehead ; emotions of gaiety and gladness look out at her eyes ; and her tones, corresponding with her countenance, are youthful and affectionate. To think of an-flying a head like this in the household cap of Mrs. Haller .1—to imagine that a face which looks happy and pleased in its own despite, could adequately express the corroding worm—the secret canker —the consciousness of lost innocence—the sense of happiness gone for ever—the brain oppressed with "written troubles," and the bosom replete with the "perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart ;"—to conceive that a voice, which might well, indeed, become the idol of a father's love, but which is not yet impassioned enough for a lover's ear, could speak in the deep and soul-harrowing accents of contrition and remorse !—They must have been both blind and deaf, or worse, not to perceive in her Claudia the line of parts which nature at present prescribes to her. The interviews with the father were full of beauty, with the lover comparatively insipid ; whilst the scenes of anguish and phrensy towards the close betrayed the incompetency of an immature age either to conceive the force of such emotions or to give them suitable expression. She who charmed you with her expressions of happiness, affection, or tender regret, dejected you by the weakness of her efforts to be energetic and vehement. The exclamation—" Oh father !" was beautiful ; the phrensied asseverations—" Tis false—thou liest—he is no rebel," were, in voice, look, and gesture—immeasurably feeble. It was the most valorous dove pecking at the hawk—the lamb turning in its feebleness on the wolf.

We do not mean to say that Miss PHILIPS failed the other night either to please or to move her audience. You were beguiled by her presence, because she is fair to look upon ; you were affected by her confession and her farewell, because the sight of youth and beauty wringing its hands, or bowing under a load of grief, cannot but affect. But there was nothing peculiar to the part—nothing of the banished wife and mother—no rooted sorrow—deep remorse —unfeigned humility, or soul-subduing contrition. She played as Miss PHILIPS—not as Mrs. Haller.

It is reported that the young actress would herself have preferred the part of Juliet or Desdemona; and if this be correct, she evinces a judgment and self-knowledge equal to her talents. There can be no doubt she would charm to ecstasy in Juliet, so long as Juliet is gay, and possessed only with the anxieties of a happy love. But we think she would fail—where Miss F. H. KELLY, otherwise an admirable Juliet, failed—in the last crisis of horror and despair. The gentle Desdemona lies altogether within the present compass of her powers ; and if Mr. PRICE—would such was the spirit of mutual accommodation between two houses that put down all other houses T.—could borrow an hour or two of Othello and his lieutenant rom Covent-Garden, the public might sit down to a banquet, the like of which they have not enjoyed this many a day. The youth and innocence of the actress would be in fine relief to the insane jealousy of the Moor, and the black villany of his ancient.

Perdita and Imogen also would both become the years and the accomplishments of Miss PHILIPS: but the character for which she possesses that sort of fitness, which you at once acknowledge with admiration, is Miranda. What a treat to listen to her, as in the eyes of innocent wonderment and sparkling pleasure, that might really be thought to look for the first time on a "stranger man," she interrogated her father :— "What is't ? a spirit ?

Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, Sir, It carries a brave form :—But a spirit."

Or, to see her offering, with all the sincerity of true sympathy, and all the incompetency of inadequate strtngth, to carry the heavy logs of wood for Ferdinand :— "Alas, now ! pray you,

Work not so hard....If you'll sit down,

I'll bear your toes the while : Pray give me that—

carry it to the pile."

YOUNG—we never saw him in the character, and know not that lie ever acted it—would be Prospero ipsissimus. The comic forces of Drury Lane are strong enough surely to exhibit the humours of Stephan° and Trincu/o. BLANCHARD (but he is at the otirr house) is rather too ancient for a Culiban, and yet would make a better monster than a witch. And as for Arid—Alas! they have married our Arid, and the TREES, that now flourish on the stage, are fixtures on the earth—not made like their sister, " to ride on the curled clouds."