to hear them.  Others, we have met with, who are the antipodes of those drama-doating gentlemen whom we have noticed above, who rarely, unless purposely inveigled into it, mention the stage or those who tread it.  One highly gifted individual, when alive, enjoyed a discourse on the merits of Molyneux, the small talk of the P.C., or a vivid description of an old-school fight; another has a keen relish for all matters connected with the Great St. Ledger—­the state of the odds against the outside fillies for the Oaks—­the report of those deep versed in veterinary lore, upon the cough of the favourite for the Derby; you cannot please a certain excellent melo-dramatic actor better than by placing him alongside of an enthusiastic young sailor, who will talk with him about maintops and mizens—­sky-scrapers and shrouds—­

                       of gallant ships,
  Proudly floating o’er the dark blue ocean.

The eternal theme of one old gentleman is his parrot, and another chatters incessantly about his pupils.  Some of the singers—­the serious order of singers—­are as namby-pamby off the stage as they are on it, unless revelling in “sweet sounds;” they are too fond of humming tunes, solfaing, and rehearsing graces in society; they have plenty to sing, but nothing to say for themselves; they chime the quarters like “our grandmother’s clock,” and at every revolution of the minute index, strike up their favourite tune.  This is as bad as being half-smothered in honey, or nearly

  Washed to death in fulsome wine.

There is one actor on the stage who is ever attempting to show the possibility of achieving impossibilities; he is one of the most pleasant visionaries in existence; his spirit soars aloft from every-day matters, and delights in shadowy mysteries; a matter-of-fact is a gorgon to him; he abhors the palpable, and doats upon the occult and intangible; he loves to speculate on the doings of those in the dogstar, to discuss on immortal essences, to dispute with the disbeliever on gnomes—­a paradox will be the darling of his bosom for a month, and a good chimera be his bedfellow by night and theme by day for a year.  He is fickle, and casts off his menial mistress at an hour’s notice—­his mind never weds any of the strange, fantastic idealities, which he woos for a time so passionately—­deep disgust succeeds to the strongest attachment for them—­he is as great a rake among the wayward “rebusses of the brain” which fall under his notice as that “wandering melodist—­the bee of Hybla”—­with the blossoms of spring.  He has no affection for the schemes, or “vain imaginations” of other men—­no one can ridicule them more smartly—­he loves only “flowers of his own gathering”—­he places them in his breast, and wears them there with miraculous constancy—­flaunts them in the eyes of his friends—­woos the applause, the admiration of every one at their charms—­and the instant he discovers that another feels a budding fondness for their beauties, he dashes them from him, and abuses them for ever after, sans mercy.—­Every Night Book.