to a town with a sober literary essay in my pocket, and seen myself every where announced as the most desperate of buffos, -one who was obliged to restrain himself in the full exercise of his powers, from prudential considerations. I have been through as many hardships as Ulysses, in the pursuit of my histrionic vocation. I have travelled in cars until the conductors all knew me like a brother. I have run off the rails, and stuck all night in snow-drifts, and sat behind females that would have the window open when one could not wink without his eyelids freezing together. Perhaps I shall give you some of my experiences one of these days;-I will not now, for I have something else for you.

Private theatricals, as I have figured in them in country lyceum-halls, are one thing and private theatricals, as they may be seen in certain gilded and frescoed saloons of our metropolis, are another. Yes, it is pleasant to see real gentlemen and ladies, who do not think it necessary to mouth and rant and stride, like most of our stage heroes and heroines, in the characters which show off their graces and talents; most of all to see a fresh, unrouged, unspoiled, high-bred young maiden, with a lithe figure and a pleasant voice, acting in those love-dramas which make us young again to look upon, when real youth and beauty will play them for us.

Of course I wrote the prologue I was asked to write. I did not see the play, though. I knew there was a young lady in it, and that somebody was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and somebody (an old tutor, I believe) wanted to interfere, and, very naturally, the young lady was too sharp for him. The play of course ends charmingly; there is a general reconciliation, and all concerned form a line and take each other's hands, as people always do after they have made up their quarrels ; and then the curtain falls, if it does not stick, as it commonly does at private theatrical exhibitions, in which case a boy is detailed to pull it down, which he does, blushing violently.

Now, then, for my prologue. I am not going to change my cæsuras and cadences for any body; so if you do not the heroic, or iambic trimeter brachy-catalectic, you had better not wait to

hear it.

THIS IS IT.

A Prologue? Well, of course the ladies know;
I have my doubts. No matter-here we go!
What is a prologue? Let our Tutor teach :
Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech.
"Tis like the harper's prelude on the strings,
The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;
Prologues in metre are to other pros

As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.

"The world's a stage," as Shakespeare said one day;

The stage a world-was what he meant to say.

The outside world's a blunder, that is clear;

The real world that Nature meant is here;

Here every foundling finds its lost mamma;
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa;
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid,
The cheats are taken in the traps they laid;
One after one the troubles all are past,
Till the fifth act comes right side up at last,
When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all,
Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.

Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,

and black-browed ruffians always come to grief, -When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,

Cries, "

Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees On the green-baize-beneath the (canvas) trees.--See to her side avenging Valour fly

Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!" -When the poor hero flounders in despair,

Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire,

Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy,

Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! MY BOY !!!

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night,
Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.

Ladies, attend. While woful cares and doubt
Wrong the soft passion in the world without,
Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere,
One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!
Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule-

The world's great masters, when you're out of school-
Learn the brief moral of our evening's play:
Man has his will, but woman has her way!
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,
Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire;
The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves
Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.
Ail earthly powers confess your sovereign art,
But that one rebel-woman's wilful heart.
All foes you master; but a woman's wit

Lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit.
So, just to picture what her art can do,

Hear an old story made as good as new,

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.

One day a prisoner Justice had to kill

Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.

Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.

His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike's armour flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
"Why strikest not? perform thy murderous act,"
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)
"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied;
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide.'

He held his snuff-box-"Now then, if you please!"
The prisoner sniffed, and with a crashing sneeze,

Off his head tumbled-bowled along the floor-
Bounced down the steps-the prisoner said no more!
Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;

If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die!
Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head:

No alterations

We die with love, and never dream we're dead! The prologue went off very well, as I hear. were suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, so far as I know. Sometimes people criticise the poems one sends them, and suggest all sorts of improvements. Who was that silly body that wanted Burns to alter "Scots wha hae," so as to lengthen the last line, thus ?—

"Edward Chains and slavery.

Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It ́ seems the president of the day was what is called a "teetotaller." I received a note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it :

"DEAR SIR,-Your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. Our means are limited, &c., &c., &c. "Yours with respect."

HERE IT IS-WITH THE SLIGHT ALTERATIONS!
Come! fill a fresh bumper; for why should we go

logwood

While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction

Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.

half-ripened apples

The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;

taste

sugar of lead

How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!

rank poisons

For summer's last roses lie hid in the wines,

wines !!!

stable-boys smoking long-nines

That were garnered by maidens who laughed thro' the vines

Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer
For all the good wine, and we've some of it here!
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down, with the tyrant that masters us all
Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge the committee double-which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don't know that it made much difference. I am a very particular person about having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse. A misprint kills a sensitive author. An intentional change of his text murders him. No wonder so many poets die young!

I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism of language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips. The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition,matrimony in fact.

The woman who "calc'lates" is lost.

Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.

III.

[THE "Atlantic" obeys the moon, and its LUNIVERSARY has come round again. I have gathered up some hasty notes of my remarks made since the last high tides, which I respectfully submit. Please to remember this is talk; just as easy and just as formal as I choose to make it.]—

I never saw an author in my life-saving, perhaps one- that did not purr as audibly as a full-grown domestic cat (Felis Catus, LINN.), on having his fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand.

But let me give you a caution. Be very careful how you tell an author he is droll. Ten to one he will hate you; and if he does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. Say you cried over his romance or his verses, and he will love you and send you a copy. You can laugh over that as much as you like-in private.

Wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny? -Why, there are obvious reasons, and deep philosophical ones. The clown knows very well that the women are not in love with him, but with Hamlet, the fellow in the black cloak and plumed hat. Passion never laughs. The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.

If you want the deep underlying reason, I must take more time to tell it. There is a perfect consciousness in every form of wit, using that term in its general sense, that its essence consists in a partial and incomplete view of whatever it touches. It throws a single ray, separated from the rest,-red, yellow, blue, or any intermediate shade,-upon an object; never white light; that is the province of wisdom. We get beautiful effects from wit, all the prismatic colours, but never the object as it is in fair daylight. A pun, which is a kind of wit, is a different and

much shallower trick in mental optics; throwing the shadows of two objects, so that one overlies the other. Poetry uses the rainbow tints for special effects, but always keeps its essential object in the purest white light of truth.-Will you allow me to pursue this subject a little further?

[They didn't allow me at that time, for somebody happened to scrape the floor with his chair just then; which accidental sound, as all must have noticed, has the instantaneous effect that the cutting of the yellow hair by Iris had upon infelix Dido. It broke the charm and that breakfast was over.]

Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorises you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into a relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, which are rare, leave your friend to learn unpleasant truths from his enemies; they are ready enough to tell them. Good-breeding never forgets that amour-propre is universal. When you read the story of the Archbishop and Gil Blas, you may laugh, if you will, at the poor old man's delusion; but don't forget that the youth was the greater fool of the two, and that his master served such a booby rightly in turning him out of doors.

You need not get up a rebellion against what I say, if you find every thing in my sayings is not exactly new. You can't possibly mistake a man who means to be honest for a literary pick-pocket. I once read an introductory lecture that looked to me too learned for its latitude. On examination, I found all its erudition was taken ready-made from D'Israeli. If I had been ill-natured, I should have shown up the little great man, who had once belaboured me in his feeble way. But one can generally tell these wholesale thieves easily enough, and they are not worth the trouble of putting them in the pillory. I doubt the entire novelty of my remarks just made on telling unpleasant truths, yet I am not conscious of any larceny.

Neither make too much of flaws and occasional overstatements. Some persons seem to think that absolute truth, in the form of rigidly stated propositions, is all that conversation admits. This is precisely as if a musician should insist upon having nothing but perfect chords and simple melodies,-no diminished fifths, no flat sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. Now it is fair to say, that just as music must have all these, so conversation must have its partial truths, its embellished truths, its exaggerated truths. It is in its higher forms an artistic product, and admits the ideal element as much as pictures or statues. One man who is a little too literal can spoil the talk of a whole tableful of men of esprit.-"Yes," you say, "but who wants to hear fanciful people's nonsense? Put the facts to it, and then see where it is!" -Certainly, if a man is too fond of paradox,-if he is flighty and empty, if, instead of striking those fifths and sevenths, those harmonious discords, often so much better than the twinned