accounted crazy, and whose last will and testament stands good in law.

There has been much said about the ugliness of Liston's physiognomy. I do not think it such as can be fairly termed ugly; yet it is a face that a sensitive sculptor would faint to look upon-a large mass of inanimate flesh, with only an every-day mouth, a most insignificant nose, both as to size and shape, and a pair of lack-lustre eyes to diversify the blank and extensive prospect, but the word "ugly" gives no more definite idea of it than the word "beauty." It is a paradoxical face, most expressive in expressing the absence of all expression; yet at times combining the expression of the most inveterate stupidity with concentrated conceit and supreme self-satisfaction, in a way that has never been equalled. There are many who, by the common play of the muscles or contortion of the features, can counterfeit stupidity and conceit, in a greater or less degree, at separate times; but not one who, like Liston, can at the same time make you feel perfectly assured not only that the personage he is representing has not an idea, but also, that all attempts to make him sensible of that fact, or to inoculate him with one, would be altogether hopeless. His voice is as unique as his face; and the deep sepulchral croak, in which he narrates

volubility of a chambermaid, but in such parts as Mary in John Bull, as Lady Amaranth in Wild Oats, and hundreds of a similar cast-in the Emily Worthingtons and Julia Faulkners of the drama,

she is far, very far side of the Atlantic.

superior to any actress on this

Her heroines do not smack

of the stage; the loud protestation and exaggerated action are not there: on the contrary, the quiet grace in every movement, and the sweet and simple earnestness with which the sentiments are delivered, render such personations perfect, and leave her without a rival in this class of character. We never saw what we could call a wrong conception on the part of Mrs. Hilson; and she has always given more pleasure and less dissatisfaction than any one who ever appeared in such a number of characters. There is one thing, for which indeed she ought not to be praised, because it is no more than the performance of a simple duty, but which at least deserves mention in consequence of the flagrant neglect of others, and that is, she always takes the trouble of committing her part to memory, and gives the words of the author instead of thrusting forward foolish impertinencies on the spur of the moment.

MISS KELLY.

THIS popular actress-for popular she undoubtedly is, though why she became so, passes our comprehension has attained considerable celebrity in a class of characters hitherto very inefficiently represented on this side of the Atlantic, namely, the fashionable ladies of genteel comedy. That Miss Kelly's admirers may be in the right and we in the wrong, is very possible, but we do not think so; and there is more plain dealing than presumption in saying this, because every one, whatever deference or humility he may profess, will secretly prefer his individual opinion to that of the rest of the world. Miss Kelly may play a dashing, dissipated woman or a vixen to admiration, but she does not play a lady. Do females in high life perambulate their drawing-rooms in the fashion that Miss Kelly does the stage? or when they cannot have exactly their own way, do they traverse their apartments

FANNY KEMBLE.

THE rising hope and promise of the drama-the bud-the blossom-the half-blown "rose and expectancy" of the theatrical world-the pledge to the rising generation, that, in their time, at least, Juliet shall not lie buried in the tomb of the Capulets, or Belvidera's sorrows be entrusted entirely to regularly broken-in, thorough-paced, tragedy hacks. I am well nigh tired of the mechanical woes and shallow agonies of every-day tragedy of picturesque and passionless attitudinizing-of storms of grief, according to the stage directions-"cross to R. H. and burst into tears;" of violent beating of the cold and insensible breast, and knocking of the clenched hand upon the empty head. I am tired of the mere pantomime of the art, without feeling or common sense-tired of vehemence and impetuosity, instead of passion; and particularly tired of hearing such easy work characterized as the

"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