would be a drawback, not to be counterbalanced by the talents of the actress, or a bald English translation of the opera; but, without any affectation, I can safely say I came away as much gratified as astonished, and as much astonished as a person of an equable temperament can well be. Pasta is certainly sui generis. There have been many good actors and many good singers, but such an union of musical excellence and Siddonian power, passion, grace, and majesty does not, never did, and it may be, never will exist again in the same person. She stands alone: no comparison between her and any other will hold good-though not so much on the score of inferiority as dissimilarity. The piece sèlected for her debut was Mayer's grand serious opera of Medea, a part with which Madame Pasta has become identified, and of which she holds undisputed possession. All who have the slightest smattering of classicality are familiar with the history of Jason and the Golden Fleece: his desertion of his lawful spouse Medea, his subsequent bigamious conduct in espousing the Princess Creusa, and the fearful retaliation of his ex-wife. The dramatist has followed the old story or fable very closely; and the predominating passions are consequently love, jealousy, rage, and revenge, with a suitable climax of horror. I have seen many fine performances,

And yet, despite all this, I am afraid that newyear-day, and other old-fashioned celebrations of the sort, are rather getting into disrepute. They are regarded by many as fragments of ancient barbarism-musty relics-remnants of the absurdities of the dark ages, which ought and must, (to quote the slang of the day,) give way before the rapidly increasing spread of intelligence and civilization. And really, the world is getting so very wise, and polished, and polite, that in a little time there will be no such thing as fun or feeling left in it. It may be proper enough that such things should be expunged from our well-behaved and scientific planet, but I doubt it mightily; and I would just hint, that there is a species of civilization prevalent which affects manners rather than morals-forms rather than feelings, which might, by some, be termed superficial; a civilization totally independent of true refinement, but which so smooths and polishes its disciples, that they counterfeit taste, knowledge, and feeling, and pass muster in society very tolerably, excepting when some little trait-some trivial action-some heedless phrase or expression, lays bare the barrenness of their thoughts, and the primeval meanness of their souls. Such folks are incapable of any thing but decorum and commonplace. Newyear-day is nothing to them-they

have no sociability; and have besides, a glimmering idea, that it displays a kind of magnanimous and out-of-the-way elevation of mind, to sneer at and decry whatever gives pleasure to the many.

But, worse than this, besides being rated as a piece of foolish antiquity, it is made a serious charge against poor newyear day, that, as celebrated at present, it is a vehicle for drunkenness and dissipation, and ought, therefore, to be abolished. I object to such a conclusion, drawn from such premises. Is it any good and sufficient reason, that the sound and well-ordered portion of the community should be deprived of the cheerful pleasures and innocent gaieties, which the recurrence of this and similar days invariably produces, because certain inconsiderate portions of the population, think proper to swallow an indiscreet quantity of anti-rational compounds? Am I to experience a painful degree of aridity, because others choose to swamp themselves with manifold abominations? But it does not signify talking;-man and beast, and all other animals, will follow their natural bent. Asses would still eat thistles, even though grapes grew on every bush-swine would leave the verdant turf, bespangled with the pale primrose and the spring violet, to roll and wallow in congenial mire; and the brutal in mind and coarse in taste have ever made, and will

means tends to do away with this unfortunate association of ideas. Miss Kemble is at present the sole hope of the English public in tragedy. She must not disappoint them, for, if she does, there is no one else on whom they can turn their eyes. But when it is considered that this is only her second season -that she is yet but a girl of eighteen or nineteen, it may be fairly said that she has already done sufficient to justify the most sanguine expectations.

MADAME VESTRIS.

ARCH, easy, impudent, pert, sprightly, and agreeable, with a handsome face, a delicious person, a rich, musical voice, and an inexhaustible fund of selfpossession, this vivacious lady has pleased, and continues to please on every stage, and in every department of the drama in which she appears. She suits all tastes. It is impossible for any one to dislike her; and just as impossible, I should think, for any to become enthusiastically fond of her acting. There is no depth, nor power, nor sensibility about her. Neither is there the aping or affectation of these things. She is, emphatically, a clever actress, which stands in about the same relation to a great actress as an epigrammatist to a poet; or a shrewd, worldly man to a wise one; and her being a more universal favorite than others of a higher order of merit, is only another proof of what has been proved some thousand times since the world began-that success