an age of consciousness.  Nothing can be better arranged as a drama; the parts are in excellent gradation, the choruses are grand and effective, the composition, as a whole, brilliantly imposing.  Yet it was dictated by taste and science only.  Where are the enrapturing visions from the celestial world which shone down upon Haydn and Mozart; where the revelations from the depths of man’s nature, which impart such passion to the symphonies of Beethoven; where, even, the fascinating fairy land, gay with delight, of Rossini?  O, Genius! none but thee shall make our hearts and heads throb, our cheeks crimson, our eyes overflow, or fill our whole being with the serene joy of faith.’ * *

’I went to see Vandenhoff twice, in Brutus and Virginius.  Another fine specimen of the conscious school; no inspiration, yet much taste.  Spite of the thread-paper Tituses, the chambermaid Virginias, the washerwoman Tullias, and the people, made up of half a dozen chimney-sweeps, in carters’ frocks and red nightcaps, this man had power to recall a thought of the old stately Roman, with his unity of will and deed.  He was an admirable father, that fairest, noblest part,—­with a happy mixture of dignity and tenderness, blending the delicate sympathy of the companion with the calm, wisdom of the teacher, and showing beneath the zone of duty a heart that has not forgot to throb with youthful love.  This character,—­which did actual fathers know how to be, they would fulfil the order of nature, and image Deity to their children,—­Vandenhoff represented sufficiently, at least, to call up the beautiful ideal.’

FANNY KEMBLE.

’When in Boston, I saw the Kembles twice,—­in “Much ado about Nothing,” and “The Stranger.”  The first night I felt much disappointed in Miss K. In the gay parts a coquettish, courtly manner marred the wild mirth and wanton wit of Beatrice.  Yet, in everything else, I liked her conception of the part; and where she urges Benedict to fight with Claudio, and where she reads Benedict’s sonnet, she was admirable.  But I received no more pleasure from Miss K.’s acting out the part than I have done in reading it, and this disappointed me.  Neither did I laugh, but thought all the while of Miss K.,—­how very graceful she was, and whether this and that way of rendering the part was just.  I do not believe she has comic power within herself, though tasteful enough to comprehend any part.  So I went home, vexed because my “heart was not full,” and my “brain not on fire” with enthusiasm.  I drank my milk, and went to sleep, as on other dreary occasions, and dreamed not of Miss Kemble.

’Next night, however, I went expectant, and all my soul was satisfied.  I saw her at a favorable distance, and she looked beautiful.  And as the scene rose in interest, her attitudes, her gestures, had the expression which an Angelo could give to sculpture.  After she tells