the other is "too full o' the milk of human kindness, to catch the nearest way." Barry murders like a novice, while Woodhull does his work with the easy self-possession of a professional gentleman. In the end, too, when poetical justice comes to be awarded, they consistently die in character-the one marches to the gallows as "cool as a cucumber," while the other in some fit of repentance, cheats the law by bursting a blood-vessel, or going off in a fit of apoplexy. For the truth of all this we appeal to nine-tenths of the melo-dramas that have been or may be enacted at the Park theatre, in which these gentlemen have heretofore appeared or may hereafter appear.

Mr. Barry is an actor with many faults, but still one that may safely be called a good actor-a title which, when fairly deserved, a man may be proud of, for it implies the possession of much and varied ability. He is a good actor, and there is nothing to prevent his being a better. Nature has given him a handsome face, a graceful person, and a full and mellow voice. Added to these advantages, his conception of his part is generally correct, and his execution spirited. The great fault of Mr. Barry is exaggeration-exaggeration in every variety of shape; but principally exaggeration in action, and this pervades, more or less, every thing he does.

"flashes and outbreakings of genius."

To me, gross and habitual exaggeration seems to pervade nearly all the tragic exhibitions on the stage; and if this be so, it is sufficient evidence of the absence of feeling. Genuine feeling never exaggerates. Those who are really touched by the parts they assume, may, from that very cause, be SO little master of themselves as to fail in giving a finished portrait of the character they have undertaken to represent; but they never, by any chance, fall into the opposite fault of "o'erstepping the modesty of nature," and becoming more violent than the hero or heroine of the scene would have been in reality. There is generally, however, an instinctive propriety about true passion, which leads those under its influence to do neither more nor less than they ought to do; whilst the less easily excited feelings of others wait upon the judgment, and it becomes a matter of calculation how much grief or energy must be used on certain occasions. But it is invariably your hacknied, cold-blooded actors, without either passion or judgment, and who off the stage laugh at any thing like enthusiasm in their art as ridiculous, that "out-herod Herod," and affect a superabundance of feeling to conceal their utter want of it; just as ladies of questionable character make an over parade of delicacy; or, indeed, as preten

so much the longer on what we consider his failings, because he has good qualities enough to make it well worth while to tell him of his bad ones; and moreover, because those bad ones are of such a nature as could be easily amended. With "all his imperfections on his head,” he has few equals, and no superior here as a melo-dramatic actor; and there are parts of a higher grade where his besetting sins are kept under by the nature of the character; such as the Duke Aranza, in the Honey Moon, which, we think he plays better than any man in the country. There is also a species of genteel comedy in which he is very agreeable.

We have but little space left for remarks on that much-enduring man, Mr. Woodhull. And what can be said of him, more than that he is one of the most useful and ill-used actors that ever trod the boards of a theatre! Who can particularize Mr. Woodhull's line of character? It is enough to make the head ache to think of what he has to go through in a single month. A few weeks ago we hinted at his blood-thirsty propensities on the stage, and he still goes on adding to his dramatic crimes; qut this is only a single branch of his extensive business. He plays old misers and young spendthrifts, greybeards and lovers, walking gentlemen and half-pay officers, soldiers, sailors, Irishmen,

Scotchmen, Dutchmen, Jews, Gentiles, French tailors and Indian savages; and all this work is done without offence; and most of it with satisfaction to the audience. What incalculable quantities of trash have to pass through his unfortunate brain and be impressed upon his memory! What floods of nonsense have to issue from his mouth! Night after night, week after week, month after month, and year after year-in play, in interlude, and in farce, there is Mr. Woodhull! and yet, notwithstanding the wear and tear that his intellect must have suffered from such courses, his brain appears untouched-his sense continues perfect, and he yet goes through his multifarious business with more propriety and rationality than many a would

be star.

MRS. HILSON.

THERE is no actress who has run the risk of injuring a well-earned reputation more than this lady. She plays all and every thing; and though we should be the last to advocate the whims and airs of actors, in refusing parts which they consider beneath them, or unsuited to their abilities, yet there is no reason why any of them should absolutely sacrifice themselves in the cause of the theatre. We have seen Mrs. Hilson, in a short space of time, play Ophelia, Dolly Bull, and Lady Macbeth, together with various other incongruities; yet, in our estimation, Mrs. Hilson is by no means a lady of versatile abilities. She has not the faculty of mobility, and, except in a limited degree, is not at home either in comedy, tragedy, or farce;-and yet there are a hundred parts in which she is far superior to any one else. When we remark that Mrs. Hilson is not at home either in comedy, tragedy, or farce, we mean in the broad and extreme parts of each. Nature has denied her the physical requisites for such efforts, and the exhibition of violent passions or emotions of any kind is not her forte; but in