specimen of both manners will better explain what I mean. For instance, the ancient inamorato used to deliver himself of such lackadaisical professions as the following:

Those diamond eyes, that golden hair,
Those coral lips which smiling play;
The rows of pearls that nestle there,
Dear Chloe, steal my heart away.

Oh dear! oh dear! oh lackaday! Now this is first telling the lady, in as many lies as lines, that her face is like a jeweller's shop; and, secondly, is trying to make her believe that she is very beautiful, which, if she really is, I'll be bound she does not want telling of it; and if not, how is the poet to reconcile such a falsehood to his conscience? But now hear our modern style

Lady, 'tis not thy beauteous form

Nor golden locks of sunny hue:
Nor cheeks which purple blushes warm,

Nor speaking eyes of placid blue;

No; 'tis the soul, &c. &c. &c.

together with the march of intellect and progress of bluism. Now all this may be addressed to a woman really beautiful, or, as the logicians say, may be predicated of a woman with a humped back, sandy hair, sallow face, and squinting eyes; for certainly in that case it would not be her form, her hair, her face, or eyes, that a man would be captivated with, and therefore it must be the soul, as our modern poets have it, that being the only thing left in such a case to fall in love with.

But to return to my subject. To use again the style of the magazines, what delightful rambles we used to enjoy together in the vicinity of *****, two youthful and unsophisticated children of nature. Never shall I forget that afternoon when my charming Sarah, who, though she could breathe sighs, could not asperate the letter H, asked me whether I did not think it very ot, and I answered with my interesting lisp, Oh, vewy. And then my introducing the subject of matwimony, and her declaration of ow appy we should be in a umble ut with only seven undred a year, living together all so nice like poor cot

tagers. And then I said vewy again. And then she remarked that it was tea-time, and then I recollected that we had walked three hours; and then she looked up at me, and then I squeezed her hand-then she blushed-then I sighed-then she said, what's the matter? and I sighed again, turned up the whites of my eyes, and said nothing. Oh! first love is a mighty interesting thing to the parties concerned,-how it may be to other people I leave the reader to determine. X. Y. Z.

MR. KEAN.

To those who have seen this distinguished tragedian, there is little wanted but a mere graphic hint to supply any deficiency which memory might have treacherously made, as regards his face-his eloquent words-or his more eloquent eye. Much, indeed, would we marvel, if they could ever be forgotten they are part and parcel of the man-of the actor; and he is one who seems to " dare us to forget." In him are embodied all the vividity of reality which integrally belongs to actual life. His looks are keys to his uttered thoughts; for it must always be held in recollection that he seizes and appropriates to himself the words which the writer has noted for the performer. We see Kean, and forget that we have come to see an illusion. In very truth, his acting is not illusive; it is, as we have said, stamped with the impress of reality: in a word, Kean seems to be, while he "struts his hour upon the stage," a being differing from his very self: he seems to have stepped into the character he fills, and while he throws the spell of his magic art, and the charms of his mighty mind around and upon us, we forget the wizard,-we are only mindful of him in one of his Protean parts:

There is, then, this, to distinguish Kean from his rivals— he throws himself off when he assumes a feigned part. He becomes the very gifted one which the fervid imagination of the poet had in contemplation when composing the play. He suffers his mannerism (and who had, or has it not?) never to come between his assumed character and his auditors. The perfect hand of the painter is visible every where: every picture preserves its own peculiar individuality, perfect in

color, tone, keeping, and expression,-free from the garb of meretricious ornament. In RICHARD, whose fears and hopes alternate; whose ambition is as ardent as his spirit is unbending in IAGO, wild in the all but madness of determined untiring and desolating revenge: in LEAR, " every inch a king" even in the extremity of suffering, when the tempestuous winds of heaven are less unkind than the ingratitude of his daughters in GILES OVERREACH, most terrible in the naked, unquelled, and untameable energies of overwhelming and uncontrolled passion: or, in SHYLOCK, " feeding fat his ancient grudge," and making malice the pander to his avarice. In each and every of these, he is, for the time, the being he represents we think not of the actor who feigns, but of the man who speaks and looks the character. Would that of his existence we could say,-"ESTO PERPETUA!"

Admirably has Sheridan described the qualifications of the actor is the description not equally applicable to Kean as to Garrick?

The grace of action; the adapted mien,
Faithful, as nature, to the varied scene;

The expressive glance, whose subtle comment draws
Entranced attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture, that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own;
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,
And, clothed with orient hues, transcends the day!
Passion's wild break and frown, that awes the sense
And every charm of gentle eloquence.

All perishable! like the electric fire,

But strike the frame, and, as they strike, expire ;

Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,

Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air.

But the primal tragedian of his time-for we would place him above the cold Kemble, or the rhapsodist Talma-may cease to exist, but his memory cannot fail to live. shall not look upon his like again." Far-far distant be the day when this able illustrater of the works of a kindred genius,

We