THE PLAY AND THE AFTERPIECE. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

THERE is probably no species of amusement so dangeronsly attractive to a young and imaginative person, as the theatre. A frivolous mind finds it merely a fashionable way of dissipating time, but to the character of which I speak, it is a sort of fairy land-an enchanted garden, and the dusky slave of the lamp, by whose agency so lovely a spot was created, is quite forgotten while the eye and fancy run riot amid its pleasures. Who can have forgotten her visits in early life to the scene of such sorcery-the strange delight with which she gazed on the brilliant dresscircle, and the feeling almost of awe with which she looked down upon the sea of human faces that rolled beneath her in the pit? Who can have forgotten the impatient longing with which she watched the mystic green curtain, even as the Egyptian novice, in olden time, gazed on the dark veil which concealed the burning glories of the mys

VOL. I.

terious Isis-the breathless anticipation when that curtain slowly began to rise-and the pleasant shiver that ran through her frame as she felt the rush of cold air from behind the scenes while her eye was suddenly filled with the mimic splendour of the stage. And who does not also remember the utter prostration of all mental and bodily strength that followed this strong excitement? I do not know how it may be with others, but I have certainly been sensible of as much fatigue resulting from the enjoyment of fine acting, as from severe mental labour, or unwonted physical exertion. Perhaps, had I been a habitual attendant on the theatre, my feelings would have become hackneyed and less susceptible of such powerful impressions. But I could never bring myself to resort to it as a mere pastime. I never went unless to witness such historical skill as could afford me intellectual gratification, and I have generally returned completely overcome with lassitude-the natural consequence of great excitement. That such impressions may be

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fraught with danger to the weak-minded, is without doubt, and an instance now occurs to me, which seems to me worth noticing.

Josephine Beauvilliers was the youngest daughter of an old French merchant, who, having made his fortune in this country, was content to remain here to spend it. His children were all married except Josephine, and his time was now divided between his counting-room, his dinner-table, and the spectacle, upon which the family were regular attendants. Josephine had been highly, but not judiciously educated. Every thing connected with the imagination, she learned with difficulty, and, according to the prevailing system, she was taught those things best which she learned most easily. She had none of the volatile spirit of coquetry which generally distinguishes her country-women, but its place was supplied by what was still worse-sentiment. She left school at the age of seventeen, with a person of exceeding beauty-a head full of the romance of a novelreader, and a heart thrilling with " vague dreams, as yet no object knowing." Herintellectual faculties were given up entirely to the mastery of imagination, and in all practical manners she was a mere child.

Josephine had never visited the theatre until after she left school, and it had, therefore, all the charm of novelty. But to a mind like hers, it scarcely required any additional recommendation. Night after night, her stately form, sparkling with jewels, might be seen in the box immediately opposite the stage;-night after night did she watch with unabated excitement the progress of the mimic epitome of life, scarcely drawing breath except when the curtain fell before the brilliant scene. She knew it was an illusion, but she wished not to be awakened to the realities of a sober-suited world, when she could thus dwell amid the splendours of the regal state in the fairy land of the drama. The actors in that bright scene, were objects of her special reverence. She envied while she almost worshipped the queen of tragedy, sweeping in jewelled robes across the narrow limits of her transient kingdom, and the suffering or triumphant hero seemed to her mad fancy a model of all that could ennoble humanity. There was no one who could share her enthusiasm sufficiently to awaken her from her delusion. When we feel that there is no sympathy with our feelings, we distrust our friends' power of judging accurately of their tendency, and Josephine well knew, that to all her family the theatre was merely a place of amusement. There was none to feel its excitement with her, and, while sharing her pleasures, explain to her the dangers of their unbridled indulgence. When gazing with delight on the beauty of the scenic hall, there was no one to destroy her illusion by

pointing out (as I knew once done) the candle-box on which its frame-work was resting; and the journal which discloses the fact that the finest actress of modern times may utter a coarse "aside" in the midst of the exquisite breathings of Juliet's passionate tenderness, had not then awakened from their dream those whom her magic had entranced. Το Josephine, all was, for a time, reality, and the stage-lights seemed to her the boundaries of all that was beautiful on earth.

This dream of youth would probably have been quite forgotten in the more absorbing fancies of womanhood, had not Josephine unfortunately learned to combine them in a vision dangerous to her peace, but dazzling to her imagination. Among the inferior actors, was one distinguished less for his histrionic powers than for his fine person: towering above all his companions in height, with a figure cast in the mould of perfect symmetry, and a face of dark beauty, brilliantly lighted up by a smile that disclosed teeth of pearly whiteness, Rodolph Fitzgerald was certainly a most noble-looking man. Decked with the trappings of his profession, he realized the idea of a paladin of the days of chivalry, or a preux chevalier of the days of Louis Quatorze. His voice was remarkably fine, and his singing exquisite. A walking gentleman, or a minstrel, he could personate admirably. He did not quite fail, even when filling the part of regal dignity, but he was quite incapable of any thing that required talent or memory. Josephine, with all her passion for the theatre, was no judge of good acting. She had early singled out the handsome actor as the object of her notice, She marked the grace of his attitudes, and listened to the clear rich tones of his voice, until she forgot all others, in her absorbed attention to him. She sometimes wondered that he did not fill more prominent characters, but it never occurred to her that, notwithstanding his surpassing beauty, his total incapacity to enter into the spirit of an author, must for ever keep him in the ranks as a subaltern. To see him elsewhere than on the stage, she never dreamed, and she could scarcely account to herself for the feeling which induced her to use her influence with her father to procure a stage-box. She was sensible to a new and delicious tremor of pleasure when she found herself so near the object of her passionate admiration. Her colour went and came, her heart beat thick, and her pulse quickened when she listened to his love-making or flippant stage-compliments, as if they had been really addressed to herself.

It was not long before the handsome actor noticed his young admirer. There is nothing so quick-sighted as vanity; even envy is purblind compared with it, and Rodolph Fitzgerald was at no loss to determine the

could no longer disguise from herself the fact, that an hour's intercourse had stripped him of many of the attributes with which her fancy had decorated him.

Josephine's first care, after her marriage, was to write to her kind old father, taking care, however, to sign her name Fitzgerald, and not Jenkins. He answered her with a French version of the old proverb-" as you make your bed, so you must lie in it," and enclosing a check for five hundred dollars, bade her farewell for ever. She was yet too much under the excitement of passion to regret this as deeply as she afterwards learned to deplore it, and the knowledge that she was an outcast from her family, scarcely cost her a pang. Like too many of her temperament, she had cherished a sickly sensibility to the entire neglect of all the social affections, and she was soon to pay the penalty of her folly.

Josephine had not the slightest idea of the value of money. She had always enjoyed the luxuries of wealth, without ever inquir ing into the sources whence it was derived, and she had not the least conception of the straits to which poverty could reduce people She was therefore quite surprised when her husband informed her that it would be necessary for them to remove to humbler lodg. ings, at least until her father relented. Her ideas of love in a cottage included-a romantic abode on the banks of a purling stream, surrounded with flowers, whose spontaneous growth spared all the labour of cultivation, and fruits that fell ripe at her feet in all seasons of the year. But on the internal arrangements of that cottage-the daily routine of breakfasting, dining, and supping, she had never wasted a thought. How then could she bring herself to superintend the household affairs in a miserable suite of dingy apartments, on the second floor of a house in -street? Poor Josephine!-she knew no more of domestic duties than an infant, and those little offices of kindness and attention which so naturally and gracefully come under the province of a wife, were to her the bitterest and most humiliating tasks.

Though nothing could be more gentlemanly than Fitzgerald's appearance on the stage, yet he was, in fact, a man of coarse habits and vulgar propensities. He assumed the manners along with the costume of his part, but the actual man was a very differeut individual; the smoky lamp that lighted up the scene, was not more unlike the noonday sun. His apartments were constantly filled with such associates as usually attend a man of such habits-men like himself, who had wasted their substance in riotous living, and now fed on the husks which society might afford them. Josephine found herself the centre of attraction to many who had once been the ob

jects of her admiration, but her heart sickened with disgust as she saw how little these votaries of excitement resembled the characters they personated. There were some noble exceptions, it is true men who drew their inspiration from the poetry of their own na tures, and whose lives were as exemplary as their powers of expressing passion were surpassing, but they rarely mingled in the incongruous assemblage that was to be found in the abode of so inferior a man as Fitzgerald, and Josephine found to her sorrow, that few, very few, could rise superior to the influence of a profession whose very success depended upon continued excitement. Alas! she had paid dearly for the infatuation. She had exchanged the refinements of elegant society for the coarse jollity of vicious indulgencethe home of luxury for the abode of pinching penury-and the tenderness of parents for the love of a husband utterly incapable of appreciating purity of heart, and delicacy of feeling.

Josephine, as may be supposed, had little native strength of character to contend with difficulties. She took no pains to conceal her disappointment; her temper became soured, her manners harsh, and, in her husband's opinion, nothing but her beauty remained. He had been no less disappointed than his wife, though his dreams had been of a more worldly nature. He had hoped that her father would soon relent towards his favourite child, and day after day he vainly expected for her a recall to the paternal roof. When, however, her father still continued inexorable, after the lapse of two years, during which time Josephine had become the mother of a sickly little girl, he determined to make her beauty profitable since her fortune was beyond his grasp.

Gradually-for he anticipated her repugnance-he unfolded to her a scheme which he bad been secretly maturing. He spoke of her beauty, her talents, her musical skill, and finally proposed that she should try her fortune on the stage. Her answer was calm, but a tragedy queen would have given her crown for such a tone of suppressed feeling as that in which it was uttered. "Bring back the fancies you created only to destroy -restore the illusions of my blighted youth, and gladly will I enter a place I once deemed a fairy land of bliss; but tell me not now of the theatre. I have been behind the scenes I have beheld the coarse machinery that produces what I once thought magic beauty, and now I would take my little one in my arms and walk through the valley and shadow of death, rather than tread the boards of that vile place, and be as you have been-a personified lie!"

Enraged at her determined refusal, her husband became more and more morose. His recourse to the excitements of strong drink

became more frequent, and at length, one day he so far forgot his manhood as to strike her a heavy blow. She rose from the floor, and gazing at him a moment as if bewildered, slowly left the room. He repented of his violence the moment it was committed, but he could not bring himself to the humiliation of acknowledging it, and another hour was consumed over his bottle before he sought his injured wife. She was no where to be found! The babe also had disappeared, and after a considerable search, he learned from a boy who attended a shop in the neigh bourhood, that Mrs. Fitzgerald had passed some time before with her child in her arms. Alarmed at the se tidings, her husband sought her in all directions, but she had wandered beyond his reach, and he was obliged to take his place upon the stage that night, while his heart was torn with anguish and re

morse.

Three days afterwards a woman with a child in her arms, was seen sitting on the steps of a church in the upper part of the city. The weather was excessively cold, and both mother and child were thinly clad. A charitable old lady brought them into her house, and then found, to her horror, that the child was dead, and frozen stiff, while the mother was a quiet, melancholy lunatic. The commissioners of the almshouse ordered the burial of the infant, and transferred the unhappy Josephine to the asylum for the insane. Fitzgerald heard the story just as he was dressing to personate a minstrel, in which character he was to sing a new song. He appeared pale, and his lips quivered as he attempted to utter the notes. But he had too often played a part to fail now. His song was sung-it was encored; he obeyed, and then throwing a cloak over his gay trappings, he hurried to the asylum. He was admitted after declaring his errand, and found himself at the door of a grated cell, within which, on a straw pallet, lay the still beautiful Josephine. He turned away without a single word, but regularly on the first day of every week, a small sum of money was deposited in the hands of the matron for the support of the helpless patient. He never visited her again, but endeavoured to drown his remorse in still more copious potations. He still appeared on the stage, but his bloated person and disfigured countenance soon bore testimony to his destructive habits.

About a year after their separation, Fitzgerald was seized with a fit while passing the city hospital. He was immediately carried in, and lay for many days suffering all the horrors of that dreadful scourge of the drunkard-delirium tremens. An hour before his death, he so far recovered his reason as to recognize in the nurse who attended him, the erring and ill-fated Josephine. But the heavy hand that lay upon him, forbade the

utterance of a single word of penitence. A look of tenderness-a pressure of the clammy fingers, and the "handsomest man on the stage" was no more! A life of false glitter was finished by a death in the ward of a hospital.

As soon as the news of his death reached Mr. Beauvilliers, he determined to recall his daughter. He had never seen her-never heard from her, since he had discarded her, and his heart smote him as he thought of the hardships she might have endured. He found her occupying a humble but useful station in the city hospital. When she left her husband, after the blow which had excited her to frenzy, she had determined to commit suicide. But the thought of her child seemed instinctively to restrain her, and she was unconscious of all that had passed, until after the lapse of several months. She gradually recovered her faculties, and found herself in the asylum. After her entire recovery, she communicated to one of the physicians enough of her story to interest him in her favour; carefully concealing her name, however, and expressing her wish to find some employment that might relieve her from the necessity of applying to her husband for her maintenance. She was allowed to earn her daily bread as a sempstress and assistant nurse in the hospital, and finally, the abode which she had chosen as a refuge from her now hated husband, became the shelter of that husband's dying head.

The dream of youth could never be recalled, but the tenderness of woman's nature is indestructible, and she watched over his unconscious form until death extinguished the last spark of her resentment, and hiding the harsh realities of his character, left his memory to be deified by her imagination. Josephine had suffered much. She was scarcely twenty-three years of age, and yet her own folly had blighted all her happiness, and clouded all her future prospects. A life of retirement was all that seemed left for her, and to that, her habits of thought and feeling were alike averse. Her imagination still ruled her better judgment, and, in despite of the wishes of her aged parents, who gladly welcomed her to her childhood's home, she sailed for France, with a determination to bury herself in a convent, as a more romantic method of seclusion than could be devised in the common-place land of America.

An old count who came frequently to visit his daughters, then boarders in the same convent, struck with her exceeding beauty, which she certainly took no especial pains to conceal when circumstances allowed it to be disclosed, prevailed upon her to change her mind. When the year of her noviciate had expired, she appeared before the altar to receive-not the veil, but the wedding-ring. She soon learned that it is possible to play