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 sup- to forget that I had any existence save that of posed offering to Pauline. the scornful Lady of Lyons. When we rose from After a few whispered words of encouragment. our seats and approached the footlights, Mrs. Mr. Mowatt left me, to witness the performance Vernon gave my hand a reassuring pressure. It from the front of the house. Somebody spread was a kindness scarcely needed. I had lost all my Pauline scarf on the chair beside me. Some-sensation of alarm. The play progressed as body else arranged the folds of my train symme-smoothly as it commenced. In the third act, trically. Somebody's fingers gathered into their where Pauline first discovers the treachery of place a few stray curls. The stage manager gave Claude, the powers of the actress begin to be the order of "Clear the stage, ladies and gentle-tested. Every point told, and was rewarded with men," and I heard sound the little bell for the an inspiring burst of applause. The audience raising of the curtain. had determined to blow into a flame the faintest spark of merit.

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 !"

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 seldom paid. I think it rained flowers; for bou

fell in showers around us. Cheer followed cheer as they were gathered up and laid in my arms. The hats of gentlemen and handkerchiefs of ladies waved on every side. I courtesied my thanks, and the welcome green curtain once more shut out the brilliant assemblage. Then came the deeper, truer sense of thankfulness. The trial was over; the débutante had stood the test; she had not mistaken the career which had been clearly pointed out as the one for which she was destined.

Mr. Barry clapped his hands,-a signal for the stage to be vacated,-the crowd at once disap-quets, wreaths of silver, and wreaths of laurel peared. Madame Deschapelles and Pauline sat alone, as before. The tinkling bell of warning rang, and the curtain slowly ascended, disclosing first the footlights, then the ocean of heads beyond them in the pit, then the brilliant array of ladies in the boxes, tier after tier, and finally the thronged galleries. I found those footlights an invaluable aid to the necessary illusion. They formed a dazzling barrier, that separated the spectator from the ideal world in which the actor dwelt. Their glare prevented the eye from being distract 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 whetted 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

MAJOR.-Not at all. It is a portraiture of rumatic 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.

LAIRD.-00, man, I am just like a new body. Noo that I hae got rid o' that wearyfu' bundle hair, I feel as if I could flee oot o' the window wi' even doon lightness! Only that I diena' mind | HAMLET.—Willingly! the words, I wud sing

DOCTOR.-(Aside.) If you said a fly laden with HAMLET.-Cloths of all kinds these brothers fabricate,

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?

MAJOR.-There was much clever writing in "John." Does Miss Carlen's present production come up to the mark thereof?

DOCTOR.-It exceeds it, in my opinion. An

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

MAJOR.-I have glanced over the affair, and think it will stand one reading. The writer is evidently a man of some ability, but possessed of small imagination, and less taste. To his credit, be it said, he treats a peculiarly indelicate subject with a modesty by no means characteristic of the Reynolds school, to which he evidently belongs.

LAIRD. It was the word " 'Mysteries" that caught my attention. My sister, like the lave o' her sex, is greedy as a gled after secrets!

MAJOR.-If Grizelda of Bonnie Braes has perused the autobiography of John Lilly, the memoirs of that clever gossip De Grammont, or the diaries of Evelyn and Pepys, she will find but few mysteries in the "Royal Favorite." Indeed the work is little more than a re-hash from the writers I have enumerated.

LAIRD.-I think I may safely gang bail that the honest woman is innocent o' ony sic reading as you indicate, and consequently a' will be corn that comes to her crap.

DOCTOR.-Though I cannot exactly say with Sancho Panza that "I mightily delight in hearing love stories," there is one entitled “Marie Louise; or the Opposite Neighbors," which I have just been perusing with especial appetite.

LAIRD.-Nane o' your love stories for me! Wha cares a prin head for the mewings and caterwaulings o' a pair o' cream-faced Jockies and Jennies! I dinna believe in sic havers as broken hearts and blighted affections! If Romeo had been set to planting tatties, and Juliet to spinning thread for the fabrication o' her ain cutty sark, they might hae been to the fore this blessed day. Idleness is the cause o' a' the mischief that is laid to the door o' Dan Cupid!

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! LAIRD.-D. Cameron! Is he a brither o' Malcolm's, thinks ony body?

MAJOR.-Not exactly! But Doctor, touching Opposite Neighbours, who is it written by?

DOCTOR.-Emilie Carlen, the agreeable author

a courtship which would surprise you.

MAJOR. The lady must be a true artist then. So frequently has that dish been cooked, that unless seasoned with peculiarly piquant condiments, it is hugely apt to scunner a literary epicure! Halloo Laird! what in the name of wonder are you about?

LAIRD.-Busking some troot hooks w?' my beard! I never like to see ony thing wasted! MAJOR.-Alas poor beard! To what base uses we may come Horatio!

MAJOR. SO Christopher North, the glorious Kit of Ebony, has been gathered to the tomb of his fathers!

DOCTOR.-Yes! Full of honours he has passed away from the mountains, and tarns, and burns, and moors he loved so well, and sung with such impassioned eloquence!

LAIRD.-John Wilson is gone, sae far as the body is concerned, but in Scotland, or cannie Cumberland, he will never be dead! Whenever the trout fisher sees a thunder shower sailing doon the glen-or notices an eagle soaring up into the blue lift, wi aiblins a lamb in its talons,or lays aside his rod, and doffs his bannet as a shepherd's funeral passes slowly by him,- -or comes suddenly upon a curly-headed herd laddie, laired ahint a cairn, and reading wi flushing cheek and flashing ee, the history o' Scotland's eternally beloved hero, Sir William Wallace; on a' sic occasions the spirit o' Christopher will be present to that angler's intellectual ken, provided always, that he possesses the sma'est portion o' heart and imagination!

MAJOR.-Heaven bless you Laird! your heart, at least, is in its right place!

DOCTOR.-There is something very touching in Lord Cockburn following so soon to the grave his old friend Wilson-for friends the pair were, though politically disunited.

LAIRD.-Lord Cockburn!-dive you mean to tell me that Harry Cockburn is dead?

DOCTOR.-It is but too true! He died at his residence, Bonally, near Edinburgh, on Wednes day 26th April.

LAIRD.—Cranstoun's awa, Jeffrey's awa, and Moncrieff's awa, and noo Cockburn has followed them to the bar o' the Eternal! Waesock ! wae

sock! puir Scotland has hardly a great lawyer left!

MAJOR. Did you ever see Lord Cockburn, Bonnie Braes?

"We had already overtaken and passed several large wagon and cattle trains from Texas and Arkansas, mostly bound to California. With them were many women and children; and it was pleasant to stroll into their camps in the evening and witness the perfect air of comfort and being

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 sae strongly the freshness and simplicity of youth!

MAJOR.-You have heard him speak, I

sume?

pre

LAIRD.-Aften. I mind once being present in the General Assembly when he was contending for the necessity o' repairing the Maxwelltown Kirk. "Mr. Moderator," quo' Harry, "the floor is rotten, and the sleepers are in a bad state ;I do not mean the people, sir !" Ye never heard sic a guffaw as got up, at that saying, mair particularly as the minister, honest man, was something like a saut herring without yill, unco drv! MAJOR. Has his mantle fallen on his children?

DOCTOR.-I was at school with them, and I fear that, from what I remember of them, there is but faint hopes of it. Lord Moncrieff's sons were of a different stamp, and will, I think, yet be heard of.

LAIRD.-I say, Doctor, yon was a graun mistake ye made aboot Professor Hincks and the broach. Noo it is raal queer that nane o' us thocht o' the improbability that an Irish Professor, hooever gifted, should be hauding forth anent a Scottish relic.

DOCTOR.-Very true, Laird, it does seem rather absurd, especially as we had the real Simon Pure, in the shape of Professor Wilson, of Toronto University, amongst us. I have since seen in the learned gentleman's work on the "Annals of Scotland," a full account of the relic in question, and indeed, there is an engraving of the clasp that H. C. H. spoke about. The truth is, Mr. Hincks, the antiquarian, and _decypherer of the Babylonish arrowhead inscriptions, was running in my head at the time, hence the mistake.

LAIRD.-Weel, weel, as you confess your faut, I'll forgie it this time. Major, hae ye read the buik o' which I see ye hae twa illustrations in this number.

MAJOR.—I have, and propose to read you several extracts from it, which, I think, are highly entertaining. The first is on page 19.-(Major reads :)

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 inured to hard travel. Carpets and rocking. chairs were drawn out, and, what would perhaps shock 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."

A little further on our explorer says:—

"Raised camp at 4.45 A. M. and travelled five miles west by south, crossing a steep and rocky a small valley watered by the Rio de la Laguna hill covered with pines, and in five miles entered (Dake Creek). This creek issues from a lake near the summit of the Sierra de la Plata (Silver Range), about twelve acres in area; we found it unfordable on account of its swollen condition from melting snows. Its current was swift and waters turbid, rolling with a loud roar over a rocky bed. It both enters and leaves this valley through narrow and rocky canons; above the er extent and of great beauty. upper one it flows through another valley of larg

It became a question with us, how our packs were to be transported over the laguna without getting them wet or lost, and we at first attemptthe stream, but it fell partly into the water, and ed to make a bridge by felling a tall pine across the current carried it away, tearing it into pieces. This plan having failed, another was adopted, suggested by what Mr. Beale had seen in his travels in Peru, and the mode of crossing the plunging torrents of the Andes, which was entirely successful.

Mr. Rogers selected a point where the stream was for some distance free from rocks, and succeeded, after a severe struggle, in swimming Indian pony, which we found quietly grazing in across; and one of the men mounting a stray the valley, dashed in after him, and also effected a landing on the opposite side. To them a light line was thrown, and having thus established a was drawn over by them, and tied firmly to a communication with the other side, a larger rope rock near the water's edge. The end of the rope on our side was made fast to the top of a pine tree; a backstay preventing it from bending to the weight of the loads sent over. An iron hook was now passed over the rope, and by means of a sling our packs were suspended to it. The hook slided freely from the top of the tree down to the rock; and when the load was taken off, we drew the hook and sling back to our side by a string made fast to it. The last load sent over was our wearing apparel, and just after parting