told; but my new manager, seeing the effect, and arguing on the plus vini plus ingenii logic, trotted five or six times up and down the stage after the fashion of a horse in a riding ring, looking each time in Roque's face, and each time disclaiming any recognition. "If two unconvincing looks," thought Mr. S. "procured Kean so much applause, ten or twelve must gain for me in proportion :" and, to do him but justice, it appeared as if the play-goers of Yagreed in the calculation, for they "clapped him most tyrannically" for it. Besides his total ignorance of the author's intention in the character, he never by any chance was perfect in the text even of his stock parts; and one third at least of Octavian was made up from Richard Jaffier and Castalio. That evening I played Bulcazim Muley; and, though the character was at least twenty years older than I could make up for it, I got through with no inconsiderable applause.

My hopes of growing reputation in this company began to wax very strong. My cast of parts was more in unison with my taste, and after my second or third appearance I became a decided favorite with the audience, but I had not yet lighted upon a character entirely to my wishes, and in which I might exhibit all my capabilities. At last the time arrived. I was cast for a noble Dane in an ephemeral piece entitled Brien Boru. Though there were two other characters of a higher order, I thought mine afforded opportunities of making it "proudly eminent;" and only longed for the presence of the author, to astonish him by the prominence which talent could give to

what, I was sure, he considered a third rate character, The Dane was young, noble, generous, and in love his language was in the stiltish style in which young actors delight, and well besprinkled with those high flown sentimentalisms, known to the profession by the title "clap-traps." We had but one copy of the piece amongst the entire company; and, though it was past twelve o'clock on the night previous to the performance when it came to my turn, I was dead perfect at the next day's rehearsal. Just as I was about to drink from the full cup of renown it was dashed from my lips. Before the rehearsal closed a letter came from my home, stating that a favorite sister was dying, and requiring my immediate presence.

The latter clause was unnecessary.

I was about to set out on the instant; but the manager, anxious for the integrity of his piece, proved to me that I could not by any possibility arrive earlier than I should by waiting for the morning coach. I was obliged to remain; but all traces of the language which I had so perfectly committed in the morning faded from my memory. I knew all the business, the situations, the exits, the entrances, even the cues; but not a line of my own text, and every effort to recover it proved fruitless. I re-wrote it in a large and legible hand, and gave the copy to a friend who promised to feed me with it from the side-scene. As I proceeded he found his situation a sinecure. I neither looked to him or the prompter— I felt myself totally independent of them. The sense of the text, though not the words, was perfect in my memory. I made a blank verse which the admiring

actors pronounced superior to the author's; and, if telling with the audience was a test, their loud and frequent applause gave me additional assurance.— That was my proudest night since I made the stage my profession, but I was obliged to leave it in the midst of my glory. On my return home, expecting nothing but wail and sorrow, I was astonished to hear loud laughing voices in the garden, and to see my grandfather quietly amusing himself weeding a flower plot. On entering the house I found my sister, almost recovered, chatting with some friends. Her illness had been made use of as a snare to wile me back. I was savage at having my fortune thus marred in its promise; but pitied rather than blamed the silliness of those, who, by thus thwarting my views, snatched away from me the wealth I had resolved to share with them.

An interval of more than a year elapsed. I began to turn my thoughts to other objects, and to pursue new studies. A volume of Locke fell in my way, and I became for a time philosophical. Some works of Byron and Moore made me poetical. I attended a Catholic meeting and became political. The great consideration now was to which of these pursuits should I totally devote myself. "Divine philosophy," powerful as it is, made but a feeble stand against the fascinations of the other two, and I resolved with Romeo to "hang it up:" but between poetry and politics the contest was of a more doubtful character. 'Twas a delightful thing to be wooed by little misses for "album verses," "lines on a lin

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net," "ode to a pug," &c.; and hear sweet lips pronounce them charming, and very like Moore. Besides it was pleasant to recline-no poet ever sits -in a bower, with an open shirt collar, and string verses together-which I found I could do with considerable facility. But then politics-the large meetings; the dead silence when some new orator rises to address the chair; the heightening applause, growing as he proceeds, until some swelling period of peculiar emphasis, bound round with indignant denunciation, and flung in the teeth of the obnoxious minister, elicits thunders of approbation, to which even the greeting of the gallery gods is but a sleepy hum. The eager faces of the listening crowd, lighting up with deeper and intenser interest, and closing in more compactly towards the orator as he wins them into kindling sympathy with his sentiments, until their whole hearts are his to set them to what cause he will. The solemn pause of rapt admiration when the shouts amidst which he concludes die away. The dread of him who moves the next resolution, lest his brilliancy may be eclipsed by the splendor of this new luminary, which has shot up with such dazzling brilliancy upon the political horizon. The swollen compliments of all the succeeding speakers to the very eloquent young gentleman, who had that day so delighted the meeting by his powerful display; and who, in his own person, gave an additional instance of the impolicy of those laws which prohibited such towering talents from being devoted to the service of the country."—

The rush of the crowd, when the meeting separates, to catch a glance at the new and successful candidate for oratorical renown. The "who is he?" "which is he?" "what! that young man?" The dinner party made up on the instant-the congratulations of friends; the health of the orator; his brilliant reply; the night of intoxicating glory. The return home where the winged news has flown before you, g laddening the hearts of those who knew you only wanted the opportunity of winning the laurels which you wear," and who had, with greedy ears drunk in the joyous intelligence, that your speech surpassed even the "Counsellor's." This-this distinction, which nobody condemned, which all applauded— was it to be compared to the reputation of even the most successful actor?

But the mania would have its way; again my last manager came toagain he was in want of a tragedian; two of my friends had arranged to go with him ; I was not difficult of persuasion, and once more I became a stroller. Our destination was a city some sixty miles off, and farther from home than I had ever been before, either in theatrical or other pursuits. The time passed there rather agreeably; my cast of parts was improved, and I was rising in reputation. We had quiet respectable lodgings, and made some strange but amusing acquaintance. One fellow in particular, a guager, a tremendous still-hunter, but, with that exception, an honest fellow, gave me the strongest instance of what cool determined impudence could do that I ever witnes