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was driven abroad in a state of half exile, half dependence. The young wife was grudgingly assisted, and that only on condition that she should bury herself in some village where the parents of her husband should not be offended with the sight of one whose presence reminded them that their child had consulted his own happiness rather than their pride. The rest the reader knows already. If she sinned, bitterly did she suffer. Nor did the father, ere summoned to his account, escape-for the pride which tramples on another, rends its own heart.

If this narrative be not strictly true, it is less wonderful than many truths. The remainder we leave to the reader's fancy, for it will not always do to unite in a fiction the lights and shadows which come so abruptly together in real life; but, as some aid to the imagination, we will merely say that a little girl, very like Bertha, popped out from behind the breakfastroom door, on Friday, the 1st of January, 1847, and cried

"A happy New Year, father and mothernow I've caught you both!"

LITERATUR E.

RAMBLES IN THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. By H. C. Andersen. Translated by C. Beckwith.This is an exceedingly interesting book. Andersen possesses a poet's eye and ear for nature; no sound or sight apparently escapes him-his eyes and ears are wide open to drink in the beauties of nature and art. His descriptions of scenery are most graphically given: he is a thorough artist-his book is a succession of beautiful pictures and melodies, all coloured and heightened by a poet's fancy. We will transcribe a few of his scenes which impressed us with their beauty. Like all poets, Andersen is a passionate lover of the sea-to him it is the emblem of human life: in its storms and in its calm, he reads the mysteries of life.

THE SEA.

The sea lay before me like a mirror; not a wave rippled the broad surface. It is delightful to sail between sea and sky, whilst the heart sings its yearning sense of pleasure, and the spirit sees the significant, changing, resonant figures that arise from these tuneful waves. The heart and the sea are, however, strangely allied! The sea is the world's great heart: therefore it roars so deeply in the stormy night; therefore it fills our heart with sadness or enthusiasm, when the clear starry firmament-that great image of eternity-shows itself on its quiet

surface. Heaven and earth are reflected in the sea as in our hearts; but the heart of man never becomes so quiet as ocean, after life's storm has shaken it to the centre. Yet, our lifetime here-how insignificant compared with the duration of that great world's bodies! In a moment the great sea also forgets its storms; for to a world's body weeks and days are but moments. The heart dreams of its love on the sea's glassy surface! There is nothing in the whole of nature that shows a bodily image of this life's holy mysteries more than the great, the glorious sea, which, like the sky, encompasses the whole earth, and shows its infinity on its tranquil surface. Love is also a depth like the sea, on whose foundation life and death build, whilst Hope lets her richly-laden

barks sail from coast to coast.

MORNING.

It was about half-past two when I was called up to see the sun rise; most of the visitors were already out of doors, wrapped up in cloaks and mantles. With handkerchiefs round their heads, there stood a motley group of persons from widely different places, all with one thought-"The sun is now rising." It

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appeared as if we stood on an island, for the clouds lay below us, as far as we could see, like a huge swelling ocean that had suddenly ceased to move. heavens above; the sun rose without its rays, like a No red streak, as in the morning, showed in the blue large ball of blood, and not until it was above the horizon did its clear light stream forth over the sea of clouds. As the sun rose higher the light clouds began to evaporate-the other, as it were, absorbed them, whilst the wind drove the heavier clouds down between the mountains, which now rose like islands in the great sea of clouds. Everything soon became clearer and clearer; we saw towns and church-towers, fields and meadows all appeared like the most charming miniature landscapes round about. So fine could see Magdeburg, with its towers, quite distinctly; a morning there had not been on the Brocken. also Halberstad and Quedlingsburg, the towers of the high cathedral at Erfurt, the mountain-palaces-Die Gleichen, and Wilhelms Hohe, near Cassel-besides a throng of lesser places and villages round about. Sometimes the road led through the thick forest, sometimes by the edge of the rock, when we saw the lesser mountains, far below, with their dark pines : they appeared like hills, where some one had planted potatoes, which raised their low green tops in the air. The strange light veil that lay over the whole scene beneath us looked as if it were a large green glass, through which one saw the whole magnificent scenery. The mist stood as if pressed together in a cloud between the narrow rocky walls; one could not see the objects below it, and yet it lay so light and airy that the eye felt it must be fine as the air itself. The birds began to sing, the dew lay in clear drops on the flowers, and the sun shone on the great and glorious How beautiful the world is! landscape before us. What endless grandeur, from the smallest flower with its fragrance, to my heart with its flaming thoughts; and again, from that to the great globe, with its glorious mountains and the swelling seas!

....

What

cares the heart about what the flower dreams, whilst it expands its odours so sweetly powerful in the morning dew?-there is something far greater, something far more important, that sets it in motion. What cares the world about the longings of a single heart, and the flower's fragrance ?-mightier passions, the combats and destruction of a whole people, revolutions in nature, and the life of man, are its dreams and thoughts.

CHILDHOOD.

Meissen Cathedral is a fine gothic building: the sun shone in through the high windows, and a little bird, that had come in, flapped and beat its wings

against the panes to get out. It was the world of my own childhood that I saw! Childhood also is such a holy, gothic church, where the sun shines sweetly through the variegated panes, where every gloomy nook awakens a powerful feeling, and where the simplest images, from its light and legend, have a far deeper signification! Every-day life shows itself in childhood in its Sunday clothes; God and the world lie much nearer to each other; and yet the heart beats and flutters like the little bird in the church, after the new future without, where perhaps the hunter waits behind the bush to fire a shot; through its wings.

A PANORAMIC VIEW.

We descended, step by step, deeper and deeper into the valley: this was Ottowalder Grund: the rocky walls arose on both sides in the strangest forms, and richly grown with wild plants, roots, and Various coloured mosses; the trees and bushes stood ia picturesque groups between the clefts of the rocks; far below rushed a little streamlet, and above us we saw but once a small piece of the grey sky. The rocky walls were soon so close together that there was only space for one at a time; three immense blocks of stone had fallen from above, and formed a natural arch, under which we had to pass; here it was quite gloomy. The vale suddenly became broader, and then narrow again. We entered "Die Teufelskuche," a wide cleft in the rock, where the masses of fallen blocks have formed a long chimney-like opening: I looked up through it; clouds hurried past, above us, and it looked as if some ghostly being was flying away in the open air. We soon left the rocks behind, and a wide vale extended itself before us. The bluish white mist hung in light clonds around the mountain's tops, and the heavens and the earth seemed as if they would melt together in one great mass of rock. We continued our progress, and Nature's great panorama around us continually changed. A fine large building lay before us; it was the inn on "Baster" (the Bastion); for here it is exceedingly high. Could you place a couple of turret towers one on the other, and not be giddy by standing

on the extreme point, you would then have some idea of its height. There is a railing, so that you cannot fall. That long, pale, yellow riband down there, which to your eye does not look broader than the kerb stones in the street, is the river Elbe; that brown yellow willow leaf which you think is floating on it, is a long river vessel; you can also see the men

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on it, but they are only dots! The villages lie down there like playthings on a stall. Yonder Köningstein and Silienstein rise half way up into the cloud of mists; but see, the cloud is breaking! the sun's rays fall on Ptaffenstein and the Cupola mountains! the whole curtain rolls up, and in the azure distance you see the Bohemian Persenberge and Geisingberge in Erzgebirge. Close by us, towards the left, there are only some rocks which rise from the abyss; and from the deep a walled pillar lifts itself, on which rests a bridge that unites Baster' with das Felsenschloss." It is quite dark in the rocky ravine under us; it looks as if this huge mass of rock had been riven asunder, as if some mighty power had here tried to split our proud globe in two. The road wound along the deep abyss; rocks and clefts succeeded each other alternately. The whole scene was to me like a great lyrical dramatic poem, in all possible metres. The rivulet brauled, in the choicest iambics, over the many stones that lay in the way; the rocks stood as broad and proud as respective hexameters. The butterflies whispered sonnets to the flowers as they kissed their fragrant leaves, and all the singing birds warbled, in sapphic and aleate strains. I, on the contrary, was silent, and will also be here."

These are truly poet-artist descriptions; as they rise life-like before our mind's eye, we can almost imagine we have been spectators of the scenes, and that our memory recalls them to us. Every leaf, flower, and bird, is suggestive to the poet of a deep and holy significance. Nature is to him the revelation of all goodness and power. How beautiful is the simile of childhood and the Gothic church! beautiful from its reality. The shadows that darken the child's path have ever more influence over the child's future than the sparkling sunlight that danced around its hours of happiness: the shadows descend into the heart to find there a dwellingplace or solution; the sunshine mingles with the spirit's joyousness, which too often melts away as thought develops.

Appended to these "Remarks" is a very interesting memoir of Thorwaldsen, who is visi bly brought before the reader in a series of poetical pictures, which Andersen delights in depicting. M. T.

AMUSEMENTS OF THE

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.

MONTH.

Verdi's operas. Mdlle. Cruvelli still improves, The usual style of performances which cha-increasing in favour, and, what is more important racterise the commencement of the season, be- still, in the acquirements which enable her to fore the advent of the greater stars, has been deserve it. Opera after opera, of all styles, have offered to the habitués who patronise Mr. Lum-tested to the utmost the powers of this charming ley. Verdi's operas have had their customary young prima donna; and she still maintains her run, and despite the ebb and reaction of popular position with the capricious public and still more favour, one night do worse than listen to such capricious press. Hear what the Morning Herald works as Ernani and I Due Foscari. But the of her: best evidence in behalf of the much-abused

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young Verdi" is, that with the petty thunderings of French feuilletons and English newspapers --managers still produce, artistes still execute, and the public still crowd to hear,

says

Malle. Cruvelli has added much to her credit by the personation of the character of Lucrezia Borgia, rendered one of still greater difficulty by the immediate remembrance of Grisi, who gives it, as the Opera habitue well knows, the highest possible tragic

importance. Cruvelli does not throw into it the breadth and dignity of her great contemporary, and so far weakens the dramatic effect; but her performance is, nevertheless, marked by intelligence, earnest ness, and energy-prepossessing rather than terrible, domestic rather than grand. Her vocalism in the first aria betrayed her usual truthful neatness in the execution of florid passages; but it was in the great duet with the Duke, and in the final scene with Gennaro, that she developed her best powers, and rose in the public estimation. Her acting in this latter crisis of maternal anguish was very fine, and she depicted the emotions incident to this fearful struggle with an impressiveness few could have expected. Her vocal apostrophes at this terrible moment were delivered with singular feeling, involving a sentiment of feminine hopelessness inexpressibly touching, and there was altogether a lesser appearance of the effort-of the straining after effect-which has hitherto blemished her exertions. Mdlle Cruvelli thus gives proof of consideration and judgment, and also of that sensitiveness to honest admonition which may, by-and-bye, be of use to her. Few artists, who have come to this country without the prestige of "a name," have advanced so steadily in the public opinion as herself; and there seems good foundation for the belief that her position as a lyrical artist will one day be an exalted one-achieved honourably and securely.

A new contralto, Mdlle. Schwartz, of much continental repute, made her debút as Orsini, in the same opera. This manifested considerable fearlessness, after Alboni had achieved her greatest triumph in the self-same part. But though inferior to the queen of contraltos, Mdlle. Schwartz has great merit. She sang the celebrated" Il Segreto" in a style which, totally different from Alboni's, elicited the most enthusiastic applause. Mdlle. Schwartz is young, and pleasing in appearance; her voice is a pure contralto, extending two octaves and a half from D below the line to A above it. She will prove a great acquisition when Jenny Lind, who has, we believe, already arrived, again works her enchantments. A good contralto to sing with the Nightingale was sadly needed last season. Gardoni has lost somewhat of his formality and coldness in acting, which last season diminished the effect of his beautiful voice and careful vocalization. Lablache is here-as great as ever in every sense of the word. The ballet flourishes, as it always does under Mr. Lumley. The much-lauded Mdlle. Wanthier--said to be the impersonation of genuine beauty-has made her debut, but seems not to have excited public admiration so much as was expected from the renown which travelled before her.

ROYAL ITALIAN OPERA.

The completeness and never-varying success of the operas produced here, and the universal repute of the artistes engaged, render detailed criticism a mere repetition. Moreover, with an honesty of purpose which we submit as an example to all critics, we never judge anything upon which we are unable to offer a personal opinion, and therefore prefer giving, instead of a vague generalization, the following lively notice from The Musical World, describing the first night of "I Puritani" this season;

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Few operas ever attained so instantaneous a popularity as the " Puritani." It was produced at Paris, in 1835, and met with the most triumphant success. It seems to have pleased even the fastidious Rossini, if we may give credit to a letter of his to a friend at Bologna, wherein he commented in eulogistic terms upon every piece in the opera, with the exception of the " Suoni la tromba," of which he observed, in his own peculiar vein, "I need say nothing of the duet between Tamburini and Lablache, you must have heard it at Bologna." Bellini was a great favourite with the gran maestro, and much of his praise must be set down to the score of friendship. The opera, indeed, has that in it which, in the hands of first-rate artistes, will always insure it a great reception: but though the melodies are happy and striking, and the music written throughout in a style which appeals invariably to the popular appreciation, the success of the "Puritani" is for the most part attributable to the talents of the vocalists who originally represented the four principal characters; and in no opera of the period did Grist, Rubini, Lablache, and Tamburini achieve more glittering laurels. The music is ever light and sparkling, and though it never rises into greatness, it has a constant flow of that graceful and expressive melody beyond which Bellini had no pretensions to soar. "Puritani" is, nevertheless, not one of the composer's best works, although it appears to be one which has attained most popularity.

The performance on Saturday exhibited its usual excellence, and no work of the season has elicited Ricardo is a finished and admirable impersonation. more applause from the audience. Tamburini's There is little to draw forth his histrionic powers, but no artist knows better how to give importance to an inferior part. His first song, Fior d'amore," was given with intense feeling. Tamburini's pathetic singing is one of his greatest merits: his emotion proceeds from the heart, and is figured in his countenance. In the whole of the music allotted to him in the "Puritani," he does not introduce a roulade, if we except an appropriate cadenza in the first cavatina. That one so noted for his florid execution should eschew fioriture, and depend solely on the expression of the music, is highly to be admired, and warmly to be applauded; but Tamburini's talents are It is needless to say that he came out with power invariably submitted to the true ends of vocalization. and effect in the duet with Giorgio, and was immensely applauded.

Marini was received with great applause. His Giorgio we considered last season as one of his best parts. In the first movement of the duet with Grisi,

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Piangi, O Figlia, sul mio seno,' nervousness rendered his intonation uncertain, but as he proceeded, he became more steady, and his splendid voice told finely in the long duet of the second act, of which

the Suoni la tromba" constitutes the climax. Marini is not a Lablache, nor he is a Tamburini, but he has a glorious voice, and is an excellent artist. The Suoni la tromba," which exhibited a generous rivalry on the part of the two vocalists, was encored with tremendous acclamations.

Mario's Arturo, even with Rubini fresh in our memory, afforded us the most unqualified delight. Vocally considered, it is one of the great tenor's most admirable efforts, and beyond question unrivalled in the present day. The favourite “A te o cara, was rendered with consummate grace and feeling, eliciting a burst of admiration from the audience, and was encored with the most vociferous ap plause. But the "Ella è tremante" was his greatest

display. Here the beauty of voice, purity of tone, accuracy of intonation, and sympathetic expression, could hardly be surpassed. Mario is positively sing ing better this year than last. His voice appears to have gained in power and volume, while its sweet

ness is as remarkable as ever.

The excitement he produced on Saturday was almost unprecedented. "But what shall we say of Grisi's Elvira? Would not the reader be surprised if we intimated that we see Grisi with less satisfaction than of old as the heroine of the "Puritani?" And yet we are inclined to think that such is the fact. It is not, however, that Grisi's voice is less beautiful, or less fresh, than when she first warbled so deliciously in the "Puritani," nor is it that her acting is less instinct with that sweetness and grace which formerly rendered it so attractive: but it is simply, that Grisi has soared beyond the beautiful into the regions of the sublime, where she now sits enthroned, and from which she must neces

sarily descend if she would walk in less glorious paths. Her Elvira is still vocally exquisite, still dramatically charming, truthful, and intense; but the character involves neither passion nor grandeur, and without these impulses to her genius, we do not behold Grisi towering in her pride of place. If we could free ourselves from the memories of "Norma," "Semiramide," "Lucrezia Borgia," "Anna Bolena," "Donna Anna," and others, we should rest satisfied with the Elvira, and wish for nothing besides. But Grisi has taught us to be contented with nothing less than the sublime, and we cannot separate

her name from the loftier walks of lyric tragedy. Her

Elvira on Saturday night created an immense sensa

tion, and she never sang more delightfully in her life. The mad scene in the second act, although in itself neither greatly dramatic nor written with much intensity, derived from her a power and grandeur that reminded us of her higher efforts. The "Qui la voce," and the "Son vergin 'vezzosa," were rendered with all that exquisite delicacy, grace, and finish, that so particularly belong to Grisi. The applause of the audience was uproarious after each of these transcendant vocal displays, and the artist was recalled several times. In short, Grisi created a real furore on Saturday night. The principal singers were called for at the end, and were received with enthusiastic cheers. Polonini was highly efficient in the small part of Walton. The first act of "Le Diable a Quatre" terminated the performance.

MARYLEBONE.

The last revival here has been "The Doubie Marriage" of Beaumont and Fletcher, adapted to modern stage requirements by Mr. Serle. This adaptation involves considerable alterations, especially towards the close of the play; and it is due to Mr. Serle to say that he has executed his task with much skill and judgment. The extremely complicated nature of the plot prevents our attempting to unravel it. Suffice it to say that the heroine (Juliana) is a matchless specimen of wife-like devotion, insomuch that Campbell, in one of his criticisms on this play, entitles her "a fine idol of the imagination rather than a probable type of nature." Mrs. Warner pourtrayed this character with infinite success: perhaps her best scene was where Juliana endures the torture rather than betray her husband. In it she delineated most exquisitely the courage of a woman's heart when love is its strength. Martia is at best an unpleasing

part; but Miss Vining did as much as she could, as did Mr. Graham in Virolet. Mrs. Warner now secedes from this theatre, carrying with her both sympathy and good wishes. Her unsuccessful speculation at Marlyebone has in no degree subtracted from her histrionic fame. No one could succeed in that ultima thule of the Alpha Road, where the aborigines have no taste, and all strangers find it, as Webster says, "the pursuit of the legitimate drama under difficulties," even to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Warner's theatre. In our next we shall have to chronicle the result of the concluding feast here-the engagement of Macready for a few nights.

HAYMARKET.

drama called "Old Honesty," stated (with a The chief novelty this month has been a slight shadowing over of the truth which theatrical consciences readily allow) to be "written by J. M. Morton, Esq." It is, in fact, a skilful transmutation of a well-known French drama into one that becomes wonderfully English by the ingenious alteration of scenes, names, and characteristics. Still, though among our revolutionary and democracy-loving neighbours, working bricklayers may have sons who, after the fashion of Joseph Bradshaw, acquire gentlemanly ways, and aspire to attorney's daughters, the fact seems rather against the known peculiarities of English society. This is the chief fault in the piece. Its plot turns upon the accidental finding of a treasure by Michael Bradshaw, the bricklayer (Mr. Webster), who has gained the deserved soubriquet of "Old Honesty." His struggles of conscience-contending with the paternal affection which would fain appropriate the unowned money to gain for his son, "Gentleman Joe" (Mr. H. Vandenhoff), happiness, and the girl he loves-afford Mr. Webster an opportunity for those striking interpretations of every-day humanity peculiarly his own, which through their vivid reality are often so touching. There is no actor who so thoroughly transfuses himself into his part as Webster his delineations resemble those of his namesake, which we hope to see a week hence on the walls of the Royal Academy; and while neither aims at very ideal or abstract representation, there is in both a vividness and fidelity to nature which, by ordinary minds, is often more felt and appreciated, than what would be otherwise considered "higher art." Most of the comicalities were vested in Keeley, who, with a part evidently written up to his personal and theatrical individualities, kept the house in a continual titter as Toby Perch, the historyloving foreman of Michael, and the sweetheart of pretty Mary Bradshaw (Miss Reynolds). And here we must particularize with very great praise the completeness of the piece in all mechanical peculiarities. Nothing could be more capital than the bricklaying of Toby and his master; Webster and Keeley might have been at the craft all their lives. Mr. H. Vandenhoff, in a part little above that of a walking gentleman,

did as well as he could, investing with considerable interest the love-troubles and honest filial affection of Gentleman Joe. Mrs. Glover made a good deal of a part not particularly striking; and Miss Reynolds looked prettily, and acted naturally. The whole piece is good, and deserves its success-not the less that it carries with it an excellent moral purpose, which in these troublous times is not to be despised. We always hold up the theatre the more as it is made-what it ought to be-a school for the cultivation of all high and noble feelings a great moral engine, the power of which seems unknown to those who exercise it. In the next successful hit which Webster has made-" Lavater the Physiognomist"there is something very superior to the general run of Haymarket after-pieces. Mr. Webster's Lavater is a delineation-psychological, philosophical, suggestive, intellectual-we hunt for all the hard words of the aesthetic school to describe a piece of acting so purely after our own heart. The calm, gentle-hearted pastor, the meditative and observant philosopher, was made present to the eye; his very peculiarities exalted above the touch of comedy-so that "fools who came to laugh, remained to"-sink in quiet thoughtful speculations on subjects anything but natural to the Haymarket atmosphere. In spite of our former serio-comic observations on the practice of imitating Aristophanes, and bringing modern characters on the stage, we cannot help here candidly avowing that, so long as we are treated to such Velasquez-like portraits, such truthful tableaux vivans as Webster's Lavater, we should be very glad to see all our modern philosophers, poets, and heroes thus introduced on the stage.

SADLER'S WELLS

Has closed its season a fortnight, and therefore leaves only half the month's proceedings for us to chronicle. These consisted, of course, entirely of repetitions and revivals; among which we have little to notice, except that the temporary resuscitation of "Hamlet" gives us an opportunity of a remark or two on a performance, which, with the tender conscience of a reviewer, not having seen, we before purposely omitted to criticise. The Sadler's Wells edition of "Hamlet" is brought out with every attention to dramatic propriety, and as a whole is good and complete. The ghost-scenes were executed-we mean by theatrical painters and machinists-with that tasteful, nay poetical feeling, which characterises all the scenic adjuncts at Sadler's Wells. The tragedy could not be more supernaturally brought upon the stage; the Ghost's disappearance behind a stage-pillar with the flitting phantom, which showed him sailing up in the clouds, was a most capital and picturesque specimen of theatrical make-believe-saving that this upward flight was hardly reconcileable with the "sulphurous and tormenting flames" to which, according to its own showing, the spirit

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has to "render up himself." Moreover, the closet-scene, which in stage-transmutation is usually changed from the sublime of the poet to the ridiculousness of very pantomime, was arranged in a manner more ideal than we ever hoped to see it. Mr. George Bennett's King was almost too good-it made one feel that the dereliction of the erring Gertrude was not so marvellous after all. The Queen is a sad trialalmost an unwarrantable one-for Miss Addison's physique; but she got through it as well as one might expect. It was almost as painful to see her gentle and womanly grace weighed down and obscured by the cumbrous paraphernalia of stage-royalty, as to see her mental self oppressed by the unsuitableness of the part she had to play. Marston's Ghost was a very good ghost indeed, we could not wish a better. "But truth compels us to add that Hamlet is not one of Mr. Phelps's most successful impersonations. The "Hunchback" has shown to new advantage Miss Addison and Mr. George Bennett. There could not be a better Master Walter than the latter. In all touches of suppressed feeling this actor is very successful. He never becomes unnatural through overstraining after dramatic effect. The reported fact that this season had witnessed his secession from Sadler's Wells to the Olympic, is much to be regretted. Miss Addison's Julia was a very charming piece of acting; she was, however, a little in error when she subdued her voice to a whisper during the whole of the scene with the secretary, Clifford, so as to become inaudible in many parts of the theatre. What would have been in real life a natural and truthful expression of deep feeling, must in this case be partially sacrificed to the exigencies of the stage. But her last act was an outburst of strength and passion, given with striking and yet most chastened effect. On her concluding and benefit-night, Miss Addison appeared in the character wherein she made the first impression on a London audience-Mabel, in the "Patrician's Daughter;" and we were delighted to see that time had made no change in her exquisite delineation of that pure picture of womanhood which Helen Faucit first made her own. Laura Addison need not fear in following even after her.-D.

LOVE'S LENTEN ENTERTAINMENTS.

Fourteen years of popular favour argue in the recipient of the said favour considerable amount of deservings; therefore it is now perfectly needless for us to enter into any detailed criticism concerning Mr. Love's entertainments. Ventriloquism, though generally in its effect considered as a mere puerile amusement, requires, besides natural gifts, study and observation, on which the life-time of a clever man must be spent, to produce satisfactory results. The magic lantern which forms the toy of babyhood, originated in the learned brain of a philosopher. So, probably, few of the audience from whom Mr. Love elicits." the loud laugh that

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