'A convulsive pressure of her hand alone betrayed the indulgently. Foolish Georgy!' she said, 'those theatrical fervour of my feelings.'

off the girl; and are not afraid to see her do anything bad, gold of the proud lord of the manor. Egad! the girl lives so long as it leads to their own profit.' perpetually in the stage atmosphere; but courage, Alf, my boy. Try her with a necklace; slip that under her observation, as Mephistophiles says.'

'Oh, mamma!' said the young lady, 'don't be so harsh.' 'Not harsh at all, child. Alfred there knows all about actors and their belongings. I dare say he will corroborate what I say.'

'No good, my boy! When that class of persons make up their mind, Mephistophiles himself wont alter it. 'Oh, Alfred!' said the whole bevy of young ladies, 'do Besides, I have made inquiries, and find she is respectyou know her? Tell us about her;-do.'

Alfred smiled meaningly, as if he were 'rather inclined to think he did know her,' as he would have expressed it himself.

'Oh, you wicked wretch, Alfred! What delightful scandal do you know about her? Come, tell us,' said a young lady with blonde curls-almost a beauty.

Alfred smiled again, once more attempted to screw the glass in front of his eye, made a signal failure, and looked at the bill again, as if he wished to evade the question. 'Now, my dear young ladies,' said the bland Alfred, 'don't ask me. I don't wish to shock you.'

'Shock? Nonsense!' was the chorus. Now, Alfred, don't tantalise us. Oh, you naughty fellow! you seem to know all those delightful, dangerous creatures.'

'Well, she is a nice young lady,' said Alfred; 'but I am afraid that she would not make a proper companion for you, Georgy, although you seem to desire it so much.' 'Why?'

'Because she is not married.'

able.'

'Well, what of that? They must be so at one portion of their career-the commencement. Very likely she is only pretending, however-nibbling at a better bait. What's the next piece? Oh! the burlesque. We shall see Miss Featherlot. Sweet little creature!'

'Heaven help the girl!' I said, when I had involuntarily overheard the conversation; and help all of her maligned profession!' I felt inclined to turn round and call the gilded coward, slanderer and liar to his face; but it would require a general crusade, greater than that instituted by Peter the Hermit, to put down the class who deem actors and actresses fair subjects for abuse and false witness.

When the burlesque is finished, and the theatre empty, I sally forth to have some supper at one of the contiguous taverns. I enter one frequented by the fast clerks and tradesmen's sons of the city. Drinking, smoking, eating, boasting, and scandal are going on bravely. I call for a chop and half-a-pint of stout, and sit down. There is a small coterie of very fast-looking, bejewelled, and

'Well, she don't pretend to be. Her name is "Miss" bewhiskered youths at the next table, who are talking very

'Lady's watch, set in diamonds, was it not?'

Exactly. Cost me thirty pounds. But, thank God! I have it back.

'How's that? I am impatient to hear."

'Well, the fact is, I sent the watch, accompanied with a note, begging her to accept it—stating that I would feel extremely gratified at the honour of her acquaintance; asking her to acknowledge the safe receipt of the present; and begging her to inform me, at the same time, when I should have the pleasure of waiting upon her at ber house, to pay my respects. Well, the result was that next day I received the watch back, accompanied with a very lady-like epistle, as I have no doubt she thought, in which she thanked me for my kindness; begged to return the present, which she could not think of accepting, especially as she felt it her duty to decline the honour of the acquaintance of a total stranger, who deemed that a note and a trinket were sufficient to justify him in asking to pay his respects to one who wished them not, and to whom he had never been introduced.'

'Ab! I see,' said Alfred's friend. 'It's a case of the tuous peasant girl-in chintz gown, short petticoats, high-heeled boots, and straw hat-refusing the proffered

loud. As I eat my chop and drink my stout, I can't help
overhearing their conversation.

'Ha!' says one,' she's artful.'
'Aint she!' echoes another.

'I believe you!' another sighs out, as he finishes a pull at the quart pot.

'Why, what do you mean?' asks a light-haired, mildlooking, whiskerless youth. 'Nothing wrong against the girl, I hope.'

'Oh, no. Not at all!' continues the first speaker, leer. ishly winking at his companions. She aint up to snuff; she doesn't know what's what; does she? All but the | light-haired young man chorus deeply, 'Ah, I suppose

not!'

"What's wrong about her? She seems to be a very clever and entertaining girl. What do you know about her, Barclay?'

·

Barclay, the first speaker, looks fiercely up, as if to defy contradiction. Mean to tell me,' he says, 'that her name is Miss Featherlot? Teach grandmother to suck eggs!', 'Well, what if her name is not Featherlot? Many actors and actresses assume names. She plays, sings, and dances remarkably well; and is, without doubt, a valuable acquisition to the stock company.'

'Ah! continues Barclay, looking very profound, 'I know something about her!'

'Well, perhaps you do,' says Light Hair; 'but not to her disadvantage, I hope.'

'Cut away from her husband, low comedian-lived with a captain in the army for six months-husband wont have anything to do with her now.'

'How do you know all this?' asks Light Hair.
'Heard it.'

'From whom?'

'Well, in general conversation in this room. But hang your impertinence, Harvey; what do you mean by crossquestioning me in that manner? Are you nuts on the girl?"

'I don't wish to cross-question you; but doesn't it strike

you, Barclay, in the light of mean and cowardly, to retail tap-room scandal in the manner you have done. It does me. I think you are libelling the girl grossly; and you are all the more to blame, because she is not present to defend herself. I happen to know her intimately, and can testify that what you have said is foul scandal. She is as pure and respectable as her best friends could wish her to be.'

Be charitable, and look at home! Far less indiscretion than what takes place in ordinary life. Where, in any other profession, do you see so much kindliness among themselves, and so much sympathy for charitable institutions? How often does the actor cheerfully submit to the loss of a night's salary, in order that some benevolent fund may benefit by a gratuitous performance? This takes place repeatedly in a single year, and represents a

'Ha! pure and respectable! That is a good un! serious item in his income-far more than many private Gammon, Harvey! Idea-actress respectable!'

'Why do you encourage them, Barclay, in that case. You laughed, and seemed to enjoy yourself, both in the play and the burlesque, as much as any one present.'

'Don't at all deny it. Paid my money; and have a right to enjoy myself.'

and wealthy people, who affect to sneer at himself and his calling, would ever think of giving. How frequently do actresses volunteer their services to assist at amateur performances; and often, in consequence, have to submit to a great deal of laughter and derision, through the clownish attempts of some egotistical stage-struck,' who discovers Why, what nonsense you talk, to be sure!' continued that it is one thing to mumble through the part at a rethe firm Light Hair. 'Who ever heard of you paying?hearsal, and another to identify himself with the character You sneaked about till you got an order; and in return, before an audience! you vilify the very people who had consideration for your empty pockets, and gave you a night's enjoyment for nothing.'

'Is this intended for an insult? said the truculent-looking Barclay, starting up, and glaring wildly at Light Hair. Just as you please,' said Light Hair. 'It's truth.' All slanderers and backbiters are cowards. So Barclay glared another moment; uttered something about not wishing to kick up a row,' 'knock head off,' &c.; sat down, and moodily filled his pipe.

'There's Dukkinfield, the heavy man!' he recommenced, in a sneering tone, as a gentlemanly-looking, portly man passed through the lobby and exited by the door. "Thrashed his wife last night. Blacken her eyes to-night, dessay. Poor creature!'

'It's an untruth again,' said Light Hair. 'He is unmarried; keeps his mother and sister, to whom he is a kind and good son and brother. How did you hear that he thrashed his wife?'

'Rumour, of course. Everybody knows it.'

'Then rumour lies again.'

Barclay was caught again, and so wailed out, sneeringly, 'Who the deuce would be an actor? Bad lot, generally.' 'True; who indeed?' echoed the company, all except Light Hair.

'You wouldn't, Barclay,' said the undaunted champion of truth; 'you haven't brains to become one. And although you affect to despise Dukkinfield, still I have no doubt you would be glad if your total year's income reached a third of his six months' salary.'

But, etcetera, etcetera, to that conversation. Would to Heaven that it and the former were all that the writer ever heard damaging to the fair fame of actors and actresses! O much-maligned race! when will this end? When will people, high and low, cease to sneer away the reputation of as hard-working, amiable, and intelligent a class of people as there is to be found in any profession? Far be it from the writer to fulminate any cant sympathy, or try to invest the profession with any maudlin sentimentality; for in that case he would be worse than slandering them. But it is too true an evil that, with regard to actors and actresses, there is a growing tendency on the part of great numbers of the public at large, of all grades, to slander and vilify them; whilst, at the same time, they are not ashamed to enjoy and instruct themselves, by contemplation of their talents and accomplishments. 'Well,' but some will say, 'it is nonsense to deny that they commit a great many indiscretions, and through their private conduct give rise to a great deal of talk and scandal.'

I cannot close this paper without lingering fondly on a scene which took place not long ago at Woking, in Surrey-viz. the installation of the first inmates of the Royal Dramatic College. Regard the quiet, unostentatious, delicate manner with which the proceedings were conducted. Surely this touching proof of their unanimity and kindness should silence all slander. But, alas! it may be said truly to those entering on the histrionic profession, 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not 'scape calumny.' R. L. GENTLES.

LITTLE WILLIE.
THE wind is blowing roughly
Against my window pane;
And, like a knell's sad tolling,
Drop, drop the drops of rain.
A dark and dreary evening,
Meet for a heart alone-

A heart which once had treasuro
To clasp, and call its own!

I know they took him from me,
And bore him far away;

I cannot but remember
That dark and bitter day.
Dead as he was I nursed him,
And held him to my breast:
Until, with words of comfort,
They laid my boy to rest.

And yet, somehow, I call him

As though he still would come
Back to his vacant corner-

Back from his narrow home.
'Willie !' I cry; ' my Willie !'
But oh! I cry in vain;
Echoes fly back and mock me,

But he comes not again.

a

Clasgow. Paisley has, therefore, the honour of being his birthplace; but the genius of that Christopher North,' whose name and deeds were to be indissolubly connected with the Manse of Mearns, may be said to have been cradled amongst the moors. The stranger walking or riding through 'Our Parish,' will not be struck by any particular beauty which it possesses. A wild, desolate country-side it is, with a few low-lying hills, a few lochs or ponds, a few clumps of trees; holding but this one recommendation, that from it-as from a vantage-ground-one may look down upon some of the finest scenery in Scotland. Ascending the highest of its eminences, you will see, lying afar in the west, the Frith of Clyde-its silver studded with innumerable islands; towards the east, the rivulet-glens and undulations of Lanarkshire-darkened by sycamore, and birch, and fir; while away in the north rise the dim, blue peaks of the Highland mountains, which the young Christopher learned to love while yet a boy. With the minister of this parish John Wilson dwelt, until he was removed, in his twelfth year, to Glasgow College; and the record of his life during this period reads like the record of a golden dream, until the reader almost fancies that he, too, was born in the Mearns.

Until he was seventeen years of age, Wilson remained at Glasgow College, signalising himself as much by gymnastic exploits as by intimate acquaintance with Eschylus and Sophocles. During this time, too, our young poet managed to fall in love with a fair Lanarkshire girl, known in these memoirs by the name of Margaret. She was young and beautiful; he was young and hopeful-why should they not together go down through life? It was not to be. Meanwhile, Wilson in 1803 removed to Oxford University, whither he took with him a strong attachment for this Margaret of Dychmont. And now his college life began a long period of alternate fits of hard work and vagrant idleness. At one time we have him thrashing a man who, after being licked, declares that his unknown opponent must be either John Wilson or the Devil; and, at another, we have him passing sleepless nights of feverish anxiety about a forthcoming examination. A strange, restless, exuberant spirit-either in rapturous ecstasy or blackest despair; but Margaret of Dychmont was at the bottom of it all. In his letters at this time, however, there is just a touch of exaggeration, as though he were saying, 'Look now, how I, through being a poet, am in love!' Yet his affection for this girl seems to have been real and genuine; and to it we owe many of the most beautiful passages in his writings. To marry her, he writes, would kill his mother-filial duty prevails, and poor Margaret is heard of no more.

This splendid fellow, who was the wonder and admiration of all the different sets of college men, passed, as had been expected, a most brilliant examination. The college dons, who generally are shy of such boisterous youths, united in lauding his attainments. His companions, admiring as much the general kindness of his disposition as the vigour of his mental powers, were equally enthusiastic; and Wilson left Oxford in 1807, having earned golden opinions from every one.

He has

In 1797, the yellow-haired youth came to Glasgow -there to attend the usual University classes. Tall beyond his years, and possessed of a frank and pleasant disposition, he won himself many friends; and we are not surprised to find from his diary that his studies were lightened both by the amusements of his fellow-striplings and by companionship of a gentler kind. Like all other boys of his age, he wrote a vast deal of nonsense at this time; and it is on this point alone that we are disposed to find fault with Mrs. Gordon's very excellent memoir. There is somewhat too much given of this foolish vapouring; and there are likewise many quotations from his diary that could have been well dispensed with. Further on in life, it is really amusing to see an aspiration to Heaven joined to a chronicle of a pet-hen's eggs. But surely the precise amount of coppers which the young collegian was wont to expend on barley-sugar might have been discreetly withheld. One cannot but think of a conversation of Burns, wherein the then dying poet expressed to Mrs. Riddell his fear that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him, to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and verses, written with unguarded and improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence when no dread of his resentment would restrain them.' Poor Burns' forebodings were but too prophetic. Over the grave of no other poet has such a mass of rubbish been raked up for the self-glorification of certain literary rag-pickers. Indeed, in those days when everybody has his or her life written, it were well that a habit of circumspection with regard to letter-writing-any tea-party could have produced sweeter-faced were more widely inculcated upon our young people. John Wilson, meantime, only suffers through some silly stories, which are as false as they are foolish. Spare him, ye autograph hunters!

A new section of his life commences. reached manhood; has bought a piece of land and a house for himself; and, at the beautiful and wellknown Elleray, has settled down as one of the Lake Poets. But his method of settling down was somewhat peculiar. Out at all seasons of the year, in all weathers, by night or by day, on the lake or among the hills;-there was nothing too erratic about John Wilson for the inhabitants of the lake district to credit. Had it been reported that Wilson of Elleray had thrashed the Fiend in a hand-to-hand fight on the summit of Helvellyn, the simple people of Winander mere would have wondered and believed. He was in the full bloom and vigour of his manhood. He was not remarkable for his height-any recruiting tavern could have produced his superior; he was not remark able for his strength-many a prize-fighter could have beaten him; he was not remarkable for his beauty

young men; he was not remarkable for his geniusthere were many greater poets than he alive;-but he was remarkable and altogether unique in that he had a large proportion of all those qualities, united in