use of the razor paves the way for many ills and entitled, “ Autobiography of an Actress; or eight

evils.

LAIRD.-Hoo then can ye say that your beard predilections has been upset?

MAJOR.-I have long had a latent feeling that there is an insurmountable incompatibility between our pinched and unpoetical costume, and the crops which barbers reap! The figure which you present, at this moment, ripens that latent feeling into settled conviction!

DOCTOR.-Hear! hear! hear!

LAIRD.—Wha can hear, if you keep routing and roaring in that idiotical like way! Gang on Culpepper !

MAJOR.-Habit is second nature. For a period sufficiently long to establish a solid and abiding prescription, have we been accustomed to associate the beard with a style of dress altogether antipodal to that which now universally prevails among us. This association is deepened and perpetuated by the statuary, the painter, and the poet. It has obtained a footing too firm to be abrogated or shaken. We could as easily return

to the usages of savage life, as accomplish such an undertaking!

LAIRD.-Div ye then gie up the beard, as a hopeless speculation?

years on the Stage." By Anna Cora Mowatt.

MAJOR.-If Anna writes as well as she acts, the book must be worth reading. I saw her in London a few years ago, in the character of "Julia," and was much pleased with her rendering of the part. She was refreshingly devoid of the rant and nasal intonation, which too frequently characterise the female Thespians of Dollardom.

DOCTOR.-The perusal of these memoirs will not lessen your favourable estimate of the lady. They are written with much simplicity, and give a truthful and striking picture of life behind the

scenes.

MAJOR.-Was Mrs. Mowatt bred to the stage? DOCTOR.-NO! Pecuniary embarassments into which her husband fell, made her adoption of the theatrical profession almost a matter of necessity. MAJOR.-Where did she make her first appear

ance?

DOCTOR. At the Park Theatre, New York. And speaking of that, the description which she gives of her debut is so very graphic that I shall

read it for you, if you please.

MAJOR.-I am all attention.

DOCTOR.-At the first rehearsal, Mr. Skerrett (our old Toronto acquaintance warned the debu tante of the attack of "stage fright," which sho was almost certain to undergo. Mrs. Mowatt laughed the prediction to scorn, and proceeded to the Theatre at night with a bold and trustful heart. She then goes on to say:

MAJOR-Very far from it! All that I contend for is, that co-existently with our abandonment of the razor, we must resume a more flowing and picturesque habit of dress! Instead of that abomination the round black hat, which conveys no more heroic idea than that of a superannuated chimney pot, let us have something approximating to the turban of the Turk, or the conical cap of the Armenian. Let the coat give place I opened the door. The call boy stood without to a garment of the toga tribe, and our stiff-the inseparable long strip of paper between his breeches, be susperseded by a habiliment of less fingers. I inquired whom he wanted. formal character. Carry these views into effect, and I will support the beard movement heart and soul !

DOCTOR.-Most emphatically do I say ditto, to all that you have advanced.

LAIRD.-I'll no threep but what you are richt, Crabtree. Sae in the meantime, till the change o' dress which ye spoke o' comes round, I'll e'en re-commence the crapping o' my chin and upper lip. I hae nae ambition to be mistaken, as I was this evening, for a Hebrew huxter. By your leave, Major, I'll just step into your bed-room, and make my face smooth before Mrs. Grundy, honest woman, comes ben. [Exit Laird.]

MAJOR.-What have you been reading lately,

Doctor?

MAJOR.-Several odds and ends, the most in teresting being this prettily got up duodecimo,

I was just dressed when there came a slight tap upon the door, accompanied by the words, Pauline, you are called."

You, ma'am; you are called." "What a singular piece of familiarity! I thought to myself. "It is I whom he is addressing as 'Pauline."" I did not suspect that it was customary to call the performers by the names of

the characters assumed.

"Called for what?" I enquired, in a manner that was intended to impress the daring offender with a sense of the respect due to me.

with an indescribably humorous emphasis, and "For what?" he retorted, prolonging the whas thrusting his tongue against his cheek, "why, for the stage, to be sure! That's the what!" urchin ran down stairs smothering his laughter. "Oh!" was all I could say; and the little Its echo, however, reached me from the greenroom, where, after making his “call," he had probably related my unsophisticated inquiry.

At that moment Mr. Mowatt came to conduct me to the stage. Mrs. Vernon, who played my mother. was already seated at a small table in Madame Deschapelles' drawing room. I took my place on a sofa opposite to her, holding in

my hand a magnificent bouquet, Claude's supposed offering to Pauline.

After a few whispered words of encouragment. Mr. Mowatt left me, to witness the performance from the front of the house. Somebody spread my Pauline scarf on the chair beside me. Somebody else arranged the folds of my train symmetrically. Somebody's fingers gathered into their place a few stray curls. The stage manager gave the order of "Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen," and I heard sound the little bell for the raising of the curtain.

Until that moment I do not think a pulse in my frame had quickened its beating. But then I was seized with a stifling sensation, as though I were choking. I could only gasp out, "Not yet I cannot !"

to forget that I had any existence save that of the scornful Lady of Lyons. When we rose from our seats and approached the footlights, Mrs. Vernon gave my hand a reassuring pressure. It was a kindness scarcely needed. I had lost all sensation of alarm. The play progressed as smoothly as it commenced. In the third act, where Pauline first discovers the treachery of Claude, the powers of the actress begin to be tested. Every point told, and was rewarded with an inspiring burst of applause. The audience had determined to blow into a flame the faintest spark of merit.

In the fourth act, I became greatly exhausted with the unusual excitement and exertion. There seemed a probability that I would not have phys ical strength to enable me to finish the perform Of course there was general confusion. Man-ance. Mrs. Vernon has often laughingly reminded agers, actors, prompter, all rushed on the stage; me how she shook and pinched me when I was some offered water, some scent bottles, some lying, to all appearance, tenderly clasped in her fanned me. Every body seemed prepared to arins. She maintains that, by these means, she witness a fainting fit, or an attack of hysterics, constantly roused me to consciousness. I am or something equally ridiculous. I was arguing her debtor for the friendly pinches and opportune with myself against the absurdity of this ungov-shakes. ernable emotion-this humiliating exhibitionand making a desperate endeavor to regain my self-possession, when Mr. Skerrett thrust his comic face over somebody's shoulder. He looked at me with an expression of quizzical exultation, and exclaimed,

"Didn't I tell you so? Where's all the courage, eh?"

The words recalled my boast of the morning; or rather, they recalled the recollections upon which that boast was founded. My composure returned as rapidly as it had departed. I laughed at my own weakness.

"Are you getting better?" kindly inquired the stage manager.

"Let the curtain rise!" was the satisfactory

answer.

In the fifth act, Pauline's emotions are all of calm and abject grief-the faint, hopeless strug glings of a broken heart. My very weariness aided the personation. The pallor of excessive fatigue, the worn-out look, tottering walk, and feeble voice, suited Pauline's deep despair. The audience attributed to an actor's consummate skill that which was merely a painful and accidental reality.

The play ended, the curtain fell. It would be impossible to describe my sensations of relief as I watched that welcome screen of coarse, green baize slowly unrolling itself and dropping between the audience and the stage. Then came the call before the curtain-the crossing the stage in front of the footlights. Mr. Cled me out. The whole house rose, even the ladies-a compliment Mr. Barry clapped his hands,-a signal for the seldom paid. I think it rained flowers; for bou stage to be vacated,-the crowd at once disap-quets, wreaths of silver, and wreaths of laurel peared. Madame Deschapelles and Pauline sat fell in showers around us. Cheer followed cheer alone, as before. The tinkling bell of warning as they were gathered up and laid in my arms. rang, and the curtain slowly ascended, disclosing The hats of gentlemen and handkerchiefs of first the footlights, then the ocean of heads beyond ladies waved on every side. I courtesied my them in the pit, then the brilliant array of ladies thanks, and the welcome green curtain once more in the boxes, tier after tier, and finally the throng- shut out the brilliant assemblage. Then came the ed galleries. I found those footlights an invalu- deeper, truer sense of thankfulness. The trial able aid to the necessary illusion. They formed was over; the débutante had stood the test; she a dazzling barrier, that separated the spectator had not mistaken the career which had been from the ideal world in which the actor dwelt.- clearly pointed out as the one for which she was Their glare prevented the eye from being distract destined. ed by objects without the precincts of that luminous semicircle. They were a friendly protection, a warm comfort, an idealizing auxiliary.

The débutante was greeted warmly. This was but a matter of-course compliment paid by a New York audience to the daughter of a wellknown citizen.

"Bow! bow!" whispered a voice from behind the screens. And I obediently bent my head. "Bow to your right!" said the voice, between the intervals of applause. I bowed to the right. "Bow to the left!" I bowed to the left. "Bow again!" I bowed again and again while the noisy welcome lasted.

The play commenced, and with the first words I uttered, I concentrated my thoughts, and tried

MAJOR.-Pray lend me Mrs. Mowatt's work. The sample which you have given me has whet ted my appetite to peruse the whole thereof.

DOCTOR.-Credit me that a substantial treat is before you. Have you any quid to give me for my quo?

MAJOR.-Yes! Here is an exceedingly appetizing tale, by Alexander Dumas, answering to the name of "The Foresters."

DOCTOR. It was my impression that Alexander had written himself out.

MAJOR.-I know that you expressed such an

opinion at our last sederunt, but if you read this story, I think you will see cause to reconsider your verdict.

DOCTOR.-What is the nature of the affair? Anything in the Three Guardsmen line?

MAJOR. We are wandering, however, from the hand-bill. Is there anything particular or out of the way about it?

LAIRD. There it is, ye can judge for yoursel'. MAJOR.-Why it is in blank verse, and in draMAJOR.-Not at all. It is a portraiture of ru- matic form. Verily "this Canada" is going ral life in modern France, replete with clever de-a-head, when her rural sons advertise after such lineations of character and scenery, and possess a classic fashion. ing no small degree of interest so far as the working out of the plot is concerned. If Dumas had devoted his attention to the bar, he would have made a first chop criminal lawyer, judging from the ingenuity which he displays in handling a somewhat complicated case of circumstantial evidence.

DOCTOR.-I am glad to hear that the author of Monte Christo has still some shots in his intel

lectual locker. He is one of the most agreeable, one of the most unexceptionable fictionists which France can boast of. But here comes our bucolic friend.

[Enter Laird.]

MAJOR.-Well, ancient rooster, how wags the world with you now, after scraping acquaintance with my razor? LAIRD.-00, man, I am just like a new body. Noo that I hae got rid o' that wearyfu' bundle o' hair, I feel as if I could flee oot o' the window wi' even doon lightness! Only that I dinna' mind |

the words, I wud sing

"I'd be a butterfly!"

DOCTOR.-Be So good as to read aloud the document which has so pestilently tickled your fancy.

MAJOR.-By all means. Thus it runneth:

HAMLET ON BARBERS' WOOLLEN FACTORY. SCENE-Front of Barbers' Mills, Streetsville. HAMLET.-Pray thee, Horatio, where didst thou acquire The cloth from which thy doublet is engendered?

HORATIO.-Crying your pardon, who on earth could

The names of their creations,
HAMLET.-Willingly!

Take out your tablets, and as I recite
Mark down each item.

HORATIO. Go ahead, my Lord!

DOCTOR. (A side.) If you said a fly laden with HAMLET.-Cloths of all kinds these brothers fabricate, butter, it would be nearer the mark!

LAIRD.-Rax me the jug o' yill. I can drink your healths noo, without leaving a circle of telltale foam aboot my visage. During the last three weeks it was a perfect day's wark for me to swallow a bowlfu' o' kirn milk. As muckle o' the be. verage clung to my beard as what found its way doon my thrapple.

MAJOR.-If it be not an impertinent question, what paper is that which so obtrusively protrudeth from your vest pocket?

It

LAIRD. I am glad ye put me in mind o't. is a copy o' a queer handbill which has just been issued by my worthy neighbours, the Barbers.

DOCTOR.-And pray who may they be?
LAIRD. You a Canadian and no ken the bri-
thers Barber? They are second to nane in the
Province as manufacturers o' woollen claith. Ye
must come oot some Saturday, noo that the wea-
thers fine, and see their mills. A finer establish-
ment o' the sort is no' to be met wi' in British
North America.

DOCTOR. That is a big word, Laird.
LAIRD.-Yes, but it's a true word.

Including TWEEDS, and glossy SATTINETS.

If rheumatism doth thy joints invade

Lo, they are ready with the healing FLANNEL!
And should the chill night wind thy couch assail,
Causing thy teeth to chatter, ague fashion
Haste thee, Horatio, to the brothers Barber,
And they will vend thee for a trifling sum
A pair of goodly BLANKETS, wrapped in which
Thou mayest snap thy fingers at John Frost himself!
HORATIO.-Blankets I lack, but ducats lack also!
HAMLET.-Hast thou no sheep?
HORATIO.-I have a score of them!

HAMLET.-Then wherefore mourn thy want of sordid
ducats?

Shear off their WOOL, and take it to the Barbers.
And in exchange they'll fill thy purse with gold,
Or, should you choose it, smother you with blankets!
HORATIO. A foolish fancy I have got, my Lord,

Raiment to wear made from my own sheep's fleece.
HAMLET.-Still say I, Barbers Brothers are your men !
Machines they've fitted up for CUSTOM CARDING,
Performing work which cannot be surpassed
On earth, or for, that matter, in the moon!

DOCTOR.-Bravo! bravissimo! Canada is, in truth becoming "some pumpkins"-as Jonathan hath it-when the poetaster of Warren, the blacking manufacturer, officiates as laureate to the Barber adelphi of Streetsville!

LAIRD.-As I cam oot o' the Hamiltor steam-ess of "John," which we considered at a recent boat this morning I bought a book for Girzy frae sederunt. a flying stationer, wha carried his wares in a basket. I wonder whether its worth the twa and saxpence I disbursed for the same! MAJOR.-What is it called?

LAIRD "The Royal Favorite; or the Myste- interest is thrown around the ordinary details of ries of the Court of Charles II."

MAJOR.-Why Laird you are getting to be quite as notorious a matter-of-fact anti-idealist, as old Joe Hume himself! I must really prescribe for you a course of Ovid and Boccaccio! The Decamerone of the latter, may, possibly, give you more orthodox notions of the tender passions! DOCTOR. It is but too true! He died at his LAIRD.-D. Cameron! Is he a brither o' Mal-residence, Bonally, near Edinburgh, on Wednes colm's, thinks ony body?

LAIRD.-Mony a time, but he wasna' a Lord then, or likely to be. The last time that I be-at-home that they presented. Their waggons held him, he was playing a game o' bools wi' some youngsters in a retired street o' Edinburgh, and enjoying the sport as keenly as ony o' them! He was then in the climax o' his reputation as an advocate, and it made my heart loup to witness him retaining sac strongly the freshness and simplicity of youth! MAJOR.-You have heard him speak, I

drawn up in a circle, gave them at least an appearance of security; and within the enclosure the men either reclined around the camp-fires, or were busy in repairing their harness or cleaning their arms. The females milked the cows and hot cakes and fresh milk which they invited us to prepared the supper; and we often enjoyed the partake of. Tender infants in their cradles were seen under the shelter of the waggons, thus early pre-chairs were drawn out, and, what would perhaps inured to hard travel. Carpets and rockingshock some of our fine ladies, fresh-looking girls, whose rosy lips were certainly never intended to be defiled by the vile weed, sat around the fire, smoking the old-fashioned corn-cob pipe."