way to fear, and for the first time in my life I began to entertain doubts of my extraordinary tragic talent. I even thought it might be possible that I was not destined to supersede the histronic fame of Mr. Kean-nay perhaps be even weighed down by Mr. Macready in the balance. Then, too, for the first time, I took into calculation the differences of tastes, and the difficulties of contending with established reputations; but this doubting mood did not long endure once more I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and cursed the lagging hours that withheld me from the interview. It appeared as if old time retarded his pace on purpose to annoy me. The moment, however, at length arrived. I flew to the appointment—rapped — I would have given worlds to recall the knock. My former doubts of my talents began to return, and I even meditated a retreat. Whilst I hesitated the door opened, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the dreaded preMr. C was a gay good humoured man, with whom I soon became as familar as our relative situations would permit. I spoke a speech of Sir Giles, from the New Way to Pay Old Debts, which was approved of, and I was retained at a guinea per week as one of Mr. C's company of comedians. The salary was small, to be sure, but, with my powers, ten, twenty, one hundred guineas per week, or more, lay in the near prospective. Though a little chargrined at hearing our manager say he would prefer a somewhat trained actor to the best amateur that ever trod the private boards, I took

sence.

my leave, congratulating myself on my success, and satisfied that Mr. C. only made the observation for the purpose of concealing the rapture he must have felt at his new made prize. I only wondered he did not bind me for a certain time, and thus secure his treasure; but I generously resolved that he should, for some time at least, enjoy the fruits of the talent which he aided in developing.

On the third day after my engagement I set out for F- —, a stirring and beautiful little town, within about twenty miles of my native city. Here I had arranged to join the company; but to my great regret they had not yet arrived, nor did I see any bills stuck up about the public places. A gloomy morning had settled into a day of continued rain, and, as I gazed from the window of my solitary apartment on the ruins of an old castle which beetled over the swollen river, whilst the thick heavy mists hung round it like dark drapery over the huge limbs of a giant, all my former misgivings returned, and I began to dread that my visions of renown would never be realised. The day passed drearily; for, though I had friends in the town, I did not choose to make myself known to them, lest my whereabout and whatabout may reach the ears of my mother, whose suspicions I lulled by pretending a visit to the country. My only resource for killing time was in spouting away through the evening, to the no little terror of my hostess and her daughters, who, never dreaming and nothing knowing of theatricals, mistook me for a raving lunatic. Indeed,

as I afterwards learned, so great was their dread, they engaged a young man to lie that night in the house, lest in my paroxisms I might do them some bodily injury. The next day threatened to be as dreary as the preceding one, and still no tidings of the manager or the company. Whilst standing wearily, almost despairingly, at the door of my lodgings, a very curious looking person came up, and, with a ceremonious bow said, "How do you sir?" I followed the direction of his eye, which glanced past me into the hall, to see whom it was he saluted, but finding the place empty, concluded the compliment was intended for my self, and returned his bow. "Beg pardon," he said, "for addressing you so abruptly, but hearing you were of Mr. C's company of comedians, I thought as a brother actor, and as there are none of the corps in town but you and I— that it was better break through ceremonials and introduce myself. My name is Tully--I have been in town since yesterday, regret I did not know you were here sooner, or I should not have passed the lonely and disagreeable night I did last. We actors are social dogs and hate solitude." Chesterfield in one of his letters, says of Cicero, that, if he spoke his orations in a blanket, more would come to laugh at than admire him. The Irish Mr. Tully was certainly not much indebted either to nature or art for his appearance or costume. He was a low set man,

of a dingy brown colour. A profusion of black, thickly-matted, coarse, curling hair, escaping from a little hat, almost the shape of a lamp cover, and

quite as napless, fell over the collar of his coat, and in front made an alliance with eye brows from under whose black projection peered forth a pair of small, dark, and fiery eyes, like angry ferrets from their skulking holes, and as opposed in their motions as the buckets of a draw well-when one looked up the other looked down, when one turned to the right the other inclined to the left, and so on through all their movements. It was owing to this obliquity of vision that I did not at first understand his salute as intended for me. Mr. Tully's dress was as unique as his appearance. Besides the hat I just mentioned, he had on a little green frock with yellow buttons, which, having served its full time to some smart serving-man, was now, with aid of patching and darning, converted into a toga virilis for this namesake of the Roman orator. Of his waistcoat-if he had any-little can be said, save that it was "Curtain'd from the sight

"Of this gross world,"

his coat being buttoned up to his throat, round which was fastened a stock whose colour would defy the ablest distinguisher of hues to give it a name; and over that arose a clean white collar, through which his face appeared like a piece of candied almond, where some of the crusting was broken off. His nether end was tightly embraced in a pair of lightish web pantaloons, displaying knees which, after the fashion of his eyes, kept a most respectful distance

"Like lovers who have parted in hate"

yet the difference seemed likely to be composed, at some period or other, by the very close connexion which his ancles still preserved. His pantaloons were finished by a pair of gaiters, that had once been black; answering the double purpose of concealing his want of stockings, and, at the same time, covering the innumerable patches of his tattered shoes.

This gentleman's appearance did not much prepossess me in favor of the company; and, but for the phrase "brother actor," which sounded flatteringly on my ear, I would certainly have refused him the honor of my acquaintance. The easy air of familiarity which he had acquired in the course of his professional wanderings, together with an assumed foppery of tone, that to my inexperience exhibited the gentleman breaking through the cloud of his rags, somewhat reconciled me to the man. I invited him to my apartments, and he staid for dinner, even less loth than Milton's Eve-I defy the critic though it seems a bull.

The pleasure of dining for the first time with a real actor-rather a shabby one to be sure but that was no great matter-raised my spirits considerably. His presence was a proof that the company would come (a matter of which I had begun to entertain considerable doubts) and I hailed him as the harbinger of my future glory. We passed the evening pleasantly; and, to give my guest some notion of my acquirements, I contrived to interlard my conversation with numerous quotations from the Roman,