avoid the front of the house.

The great people will then be none the wiser." I trembled in my little boots at the idea of sneaking in through the kitchen.

We walked on, and she soon became full of her legends, and recounted to me how two wicked brothers met on the beach-close, and fought with savage fury for a lady's love, and were both found stiff and stark in the early morning by the keeper and his dogs. Wileing the time away thus, we unconsciously trod our way straight to the front-door, over a broad lawn that afforded no cover. I nearly tumbled down with fright as I beheld a number of ladies and gentlemen, who, much amused by our curious figures, were looking through the windows of the hall at us. My aunt at the same moment discovered her mistake, and tried to swing her bandbox behind her, and tear off the bandana, but in vain. We rushed to the front-door, and made a bungling knock. It opened, and we stood face to face with the enraged lioness. She seized me by the collar, and tumbled me over my comforter, and then turned round with inflamed face and starting eyes, to vent her rage upon her timid sister for disgracing her before the great folk; to all which my good-natured aunt, who could not see the extent of her fault, merely replied, "Well, Lucy, dear, if we are not welcome, we can go back, and come some other time; for we don't care about your fine people. I'd much rather come when you want me to nurse you with the toothache, or John with the gout."

This simple reproach calmed the great woman's rage, and she bade us go up stairs and brush the dust from our clothes in a milder voice. I myself thought we should never have been forgiven for being the innocent cause of exposing her to ridicule before the people she courted on account of their escutcheons. We were soon, however, reconciled to our fate; for we were left to do pretty much

as we liked. I spent more of my time in the fields than the drawing-room; and my aunt either crept away from the ceremonies to consult with her sister's housekeeper upon the mysteries of preserves, &c., or was closeted with her female servants, instructing them in the art of knitting or netting.

All either in trouble or difficulty rushed by instinct to her, and found a never-failing syınpathy.

Poor old Aunt Betty! she had the softest voice, and, where the weakness or misery of others was concerned, the finest feelings, notwithstanding her ignorance of the conventionalities of the world. She is dead, alas! but her epitaph is written upon the hearts of her friends, the only place worthy of it.

THE DEATH OF THE YOUNGEST.

BY WILLIAM JONES.

DEATH! death! amidst the beautiful, the gentle, and the meek-
O mother! hush thine agony above that infant's sleep,

Nor gaze thus wildly on the brow the smile hath scarcely left,-
Calm thee, and bless the Hand that gave, the Will that hath bereft.

Yes! in the eyes submissive raised amidst conflicting tears,
The trustfulness that never fail'd through long and painful years,
The hands entwined, the pallid lips, that move in silent pray'r,-
Thine heart, sad mother, tried by Heaven, still rests unfalt'ring there.

That child!-how passively he lies, so lovely and serene,
More like a marble semblance than a form where breath hath been.
It seems as though some angel's voice had lull'd it to repose,
And with a dream of Paradise that young life met its close!

The last-born, too, that little one! the weakliest of the fold!
No marvel that his birthright was a wealth of love untold,
That she, now mourning heavily, would fain have died to save
The tendril of her household stem from darkness and the grave.

So winsome in his artlessness, such sunshine in his joy,
Earth seem'd to welcome with a smile the presence of the boy,
And all was bright, one moment more, the dream had pass'd away.
"Twas well that he should seek a home unsullied by decay!

Why marvel that the flow'r should fade, with no congenial sky
To bring its budding glory forth, or warm its summer dye?—
That sweet birds droop, when wintry winds despoil them of their nest?
Oh! where but in a shadeless land shall innocence find rest?

And blessed are the memories they leave upon the heart,
That wither not, but grow with age, and tenderness impart;
That soothe us when affliction steals upon our gentler mood,
And sanctifies with hopeful thoughts our days of solitude!

Let the young sleeper rest in peace! The spirit is with Him
Who call'd him hence, before one tear those eyes of blue could dim.
Let him depart-'twere better thus, while pure and undefiled,—
And in the better land above, O mother, seek thy child!

OUTPOURINGS.

BY D. CANTER.

LIBATION THE FIFTH.

Power-His going to the Cape, &c.-His qualifications for the stage-Contrast between him and Johnstone-His literary talents, and humorous description of English Theatricals in Paris-His claims to be considered an Irishman—Anecdote illustrative of these.

IN 1822 I was introduced to Tyrone Power, with whom I became extremely intimate.

This admirable comedian and highly talented man was then working his way into notice. He had been some years on the stage. In the earlier part of his career he proceeded to the Cape with the intention of settling there, and sending for his family. His journal contains some amusing accounts of the state of society in the colony, together with much curious information concerning the Caffres, among whom Power appears to have passed some time, and mixed familiarly. Circumstances not warranting his remaining in the colony, he returned to England, and resumed his profession. His success induced him to try the metropolitan boards. Accordingly he made his début at Drury Lane in the part of Tristram Fickle, but without attracting any notice. His prospects at this period were so unpromising that he made up his mind to abandon the stage, and accept a situation which had been offered him at Cape Coast. He was actually on his way to secure this miserable appointment, when, fortunately for himself, his family, and the public, he met Miss S. Booth. "My dear Power," exclaimed this lively little actress, " you are the very person I wished to meet. Go to the Olympic. They want you. And mind you ask good terms; you'll be sure to get them." Power took the hint, and made his first metropolitan engagement. "From this moment," to use his own words to Mr. Watkin Burroughs, "he never looked behind him."

Power possessed every attribute of his art in perfection, if we except his voice. This, though of excellent quality, was weak-particularly at the time I speak of. I attribute his failure at Drury Lane entirely to the weakness of this organ, and the want of breadth in his acting. Even in so small a theatre as the Olympic he was imperfectly heard. Practice remedied this defect in a great degree; but at no time did Power possess voice sufficient to fill the vast area of our winter theatres, in which no actor without the lungs of a steam engine, has a chance of being heard. Though of middle height, Power was remarkably well-knit, and so strong that I have seen him whip Bartley up like a child, and carry him off the stage— no easy feat, when we consider this gentleman plays Falstaff without stuffing. I never saw the triumph of expression more strongly exemplified than in Power. His face was seamed and scarred all over by the small-pox, yet you couldn't help being pleased with it. Why, I thought Mr. Power was plain!" I have heard more than one lady exclaim, after being in his company, "but I think him

handsome-positively handsome!" and handsome he certainly was, if beauty consists in expression. To be sure, a remarkably fine head of hair; teeth small, white, and regular; high animal spirits, and "a deuced handsome leg," as he used jocularly to term that limb, were powerful adjuncts, and these nobody could deny Tyrone Power.

This admirable actor, in his peculiar line, has never been equalled, This is a bold word, when so many now living remember the Dennis Brulgruddery and Looney Mactwolter of Johnstone. But with more whim, more imagination, and, at least, equal humour, Power enjoyed greater facilities than Johnstone. The low Irish were better understood in Power's day. Banim, Morgan, Edgeworth, and above all, Carleton, had laid open their peculiarities, which Lover, Buckstone, and other clever dramatists, including Power himself, transferred to the stage; hence, a low Irishman was no longer distinguished, as in Johnstone's time, merely by his blundering and his phraseology, but exhibited a faithful transcript of what he now morally, socially, and politically is, at least, so far as the licenser's dictum will permit. Besides, natural as Johnstone's impersonations were, in Power the vraisemblance was more perfect. Power was more in earnest; he threw himself with more abandon on the character. He was more rollicksome-more frolicsome-wore his rags with greater unction, and flourished his alpine with greater gusto. In a word, he went deeper into the character than Johnstone-gave a greater rein to his humour, and threw a greater variety into his performances altogether. His Colonel in "The White Horse of the Peppers:" Rory O'More, Tim Moore, with fifty others, attest the truth of this. I remember nothing of Johnstone's so whimsical, or so irresistibly laughable, as Power's Tim Moore-particularly his first scene. It was the climax of comicality, and wholly per se. Yet, strange to say, it was with the greatest difficulty Power could be persuaded to venture on the part. There was one species of Irish character, however, which was fully understood in Johnstone's time, and in which it must be confessed, he far surpassed Power. Johnstone certainly looked the Knight of Tarra every inch, and played him to the life. There was a polish, a refinement, an air of dignity about him in parts of this description, Power could never attain. I once saw the latter play Sir Lucius O'Trigger to the Captain Absolute of Charles Kemble, and Jack Reeves' Acres, and the effect was ludicrous. Power looked like a great schoolboy thrust on for the part. But if he wanted weight for the O'Flahertys and fire-eating baronets, he was fully at home in adventurers of a more juvenile cast. There was an audacity--an insouciance about Power, admirably in accordance with such characters. He was the smartest of cornets-the nattiest of corporals. His very appearance in a village or country-town would have set half the girls by the ears. You could have sworn he was just come from mess, or from going his stable-rounds. He wore his spurs as if he was used to them, nor could the strictest of martinets have found fault with the set of his sabretash, or the angle at which he wore his foraging-cap-points in which, it must be confessed, most performers are lamentably ignorant. But Power, like Scott, had a strong military bias. He delighted in. military society, and never felt happier than when he was in a barrack-room, or on the ground at a field-day or inspection. Had circumstances thrown Power into

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the army, which he often regretted was not the case, I have no doubt he would have made a very smart soldier. Certes, he had the make of one in him. Johnstone, from having originally led in opera, excelled as a vocalist, but, considering this qualification merely as it applied to Irish parts, I doubt if it gave him any superiority. If Johnstone sang with more science, Power sang with more spirit. But as a singer of Irish songs Webb surpassed them both, though far inferior as an actor to either.

Power possessed considerable literary talent, but his education had been neglected. His "Impressions of America" contains some good descriptions, but the work is too evidently written to propitiate the people. As a book of reference it has no value whatever. The Americans themselves are fully sensible of this. Strong as Jonathan's stomach is, he couldn't swallow the dose. "We laugh at Power's Impressions," said a gentleman of New York to me, "though, as a bit of the blarney, the work is clever." His novels are better. "The Lost Heir" attained considerable popularity, and "The King's Secret," though verbose, boasts scenes that would not have discredited Scott. But Power's best work is "Lo Zingaro." This little tale is dashed off with great spirit, and displays great fertility of imagination, with strong descriptive powers. "Lo Zingaro" was originally inserted in a periodical of the same name, edited by Power, who also contributed two letters, giving a most amusing account of the English performances at The Odeon, at which he himself assisted, as these are little known, I subjoin the following extracts from them.

Rue de la Paix, Dec., 1827.

*

The house was crammed on the first night. Every heart beat high, and more than one bet was made that we did not get through the first act ("The Rivals"). At length the prompter's bell sounded the alarm, and off we dashed. Nothing could surpass the kindness of our reception-nothing could equal the breathless attention with which we were heard. We were encouraged, and evidently regarded with good will, and actors and audience seemed equally pleased with each other; and, indeed, except that the stage waited now and then, there being no regular call-boy to summon us to our posts, with the occasional appearance of a chamber for a street, and a palace for King's Mead Fields, things went off tidily enough for a coup d'essai.

December 6th, 1827.

Our second comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer," went off flatly. Liston's humour is not understood here, and the stars, to our fancy, began to wane. Fortunately, we miscalculated-curiosity, in fact, was scarce roused. Kemble's Hamlet was announced, and in three hours every place was taken. Not a seat could be procured for love or money.

Our rehearsals on this important occasion were attended with the usual inconvenience. We kept possession of the stage as long as possible, and then adjourned to that refuge for the destitute— le foyer, or saloon.

Crowds of students from the different colleges attended, Shakspeare in hand. A literal translation of " Hamlet," completed in