er
there was,' &c., can they be repeated?

'N'a pour servir sa cause et venger ses injures,
Ni le coeur assez droit, ni les mains assez pures.'"--May 30, 1821.

Now, if this be the mode of reading these lines, I confess all my ideas are
erroneous with respect to French poetry. I have always considered that
though hemistichs and occasionally whole lines occur in it, which bear a
resemblance to the Spanish Versos de Arte Mayor, the anapaestic measure of
"A Cobbler" is quite foreign to it. I may, however, be mistaken; and it is
in the hope of eliciting information on the subject that I send these few
remarks to "N. & Q." Should it appear that I am not wrong, I will on a
future occasion endeavour to develop my ideas of the French rhythm; a
subject that I cannot recollect to have seen treated in a satisfactory
manner in any French work.

Bishop Tegner, the poet of Sweden, seems also to have differed in opinion
with Moore respecting the rhythm of French poetry, for he compares it to
the dancing of a deaf man, who forms his steps accurate, but who does not
keep time. Both are alike mistaken, in my opinion; and their error arises
from their judging French poetry by rules that are foreign to it. The
rhythm of French verse is peculiar, and differs from that of any other
language.

THOS. KEIGHTLEY.

* * * * *

A SPANISH PLAY-BILL.

Though not much a frequenter of theatres of late, I was recently induced,
by the flourishing public announcements, to go to Drury Lane Theatre; with
the chance, but scarcely in the hope, of seeing what I never yet have seen,
a perfect Othello. Alas! echo still answers _never yet_. But yours are not
the pages for dramatic criticism.

As my bill lay before me, I could not help thinking what an execrably bad
taste our modern managers show in the extravagant and ridiculous
announcement of the splendour of the _star_ you come to contemplate! If Mr.
Brooke have great merit, he needs not all this sound of trumpets; if he
have it not, he is only rendered the more contemptible by it. I have some
of the play-bills of John Kemble's last performances before me, and there
is none of this fustian: the fact, the performance, and the name are simply
announced. If our taste improves in some respects, it does not in this; it
is a retrogression--a royal theatre sinking back into the booth of a fair.
Shakspeare's and Byron's texts have been converted into the showman's