mently-" and remember your smile, Zarina, or the people will imagine you are working instead of dancing. So, socapital, capital; that's the sort of thing to please!"

"Shall I get an encore, pa?" asked Zarina, when her dance was finished.

"Of course you will! I'll take care of that, Rina. I'll send Maccurdy into the pit to applaud."

"Oh, but pa, that won't be real applause," said Zarina. "Real! what do you mean, golden-hair?" asked Julius, playfully pinching his daughter's check.

"Oh! don't you understand?"

"A bouquet would create an effect," said he musingly, "but flowers, at this time of the year, are not to be dreamed of, except by people at the grand opera."

"Pa, you didn't answer me," said Zarina.

"I haven't time, my sylph," replied he. "Now for the pas de trois. Madame Cardonizzi, we wait for you."

"Good gracious, Julius! how can you call me by that name?" exclaimed Emma, putting her baby upon the bed and tucking up her dress.

"Don't be absurd, Emma! and do learn to be a little dignified," said he, in a fussy tone. "Let me impress upon your memory that we have risen in the world! that we are no longer strollers, acting in booths and barns-no, no! We are now engaged at a first-rate theatre; you for acting and dancing, I for harlequin and ballet-master."

"But I can't get accustomed to a new name all at once," observed Emma, in a quiet tone.

"Pshaw! the task of forgetting your old name, and remembering your new one, is as easy to you as it is to me," said Julius, combing his hair with his fingers.

"No, it isn't," replied she, drawing on her dancing shoes and displaying a pair of pretty feet.

"How so?"

"In the first place, people are always asking me how I pronounce my name, and when I try to explain I stammer and spoil it."

"I don't spoil it," said Julius pompously. "Now, observe me. Car-don-it-see-there! the name is as easy to pronounce as Brown, Jones, or Robinson."

"Yes, I dare say it is easy enough to you who are so very

clever," returned Emma, gazing up into her husband's face with an expression of trustfulness.

"Dignity, dignity, madam! If you continue to look so meek, people will not think anything of us; we shall be taken for nobodies."

"Oh, ma, please look dignified," said Zarina, flinging herself into a dancing attitude.

"There! even Rina knows how requisite it is to let folks see we are somebodies. I'll warrant she'll be no soft, lackadaisical"

"Hush! hush, dear Julius!" cried Emma. "What's the matter?”

"Nothing, dear," responded the wife hesitatingly-"at least, nothing very particular. I was only thinking that, perhaps, it would be as well not to talk as we do before the children. Zarina is so precocious; and Clotilda, though but seven, is, spite of her quiet ways, extremely observant, and"

Here Emma stopped, perfectly astonished at the long speech she had had the courage to make. Julius did not reply, but immediately set about tuning his violin, while Emma and her two little girls stood ready to commence their dance. After much screwing and twanging, the bow was flourished, and three pairs of feet were simultaneously put into motion.

Julius Cave was the son and only child of a country actor of poor repute. From his earliest boyhood, Julius had been on the stage; his first introduction to the footlights being in the character of Cora's child, in the play of "Pizarro." From that period his services were in constant requisition, and he became what, in theatrical parlance, is termed the "stock-child" of the theatre. The boy was extremely sharp, shrewd, and desirous to learn. He accompanied his mother, who was a danseuse, to all her rehearsals; and, by so doing, picked up his rudiments of dancing; and the good-natured leader of the orchestra taught him his notes, and how to handle the violin. Step by step Julius progressed, and indefatigable were his exertions to acquire proficiency. He had never been sent to school; he knew no children of his own age, in fact, he had no companions but men and women; and oftentimes he used to sit, quiet and observant, listening to their conversation, and treasuring up in his memory the pronunciation of every word they uttered. Early he became acquainted with all the vicissitudes of a country actor's life, its many struggles, hardships, and disappointments.

Now, Julius was ambitious; therefore he studied hard, and practised almost incessantly. His parents cared little for each other, and less for him; consequently, he felt that his future entirely depended upon his self-exertion and per

severance.

A theatre is a school in which much good may be learned; and in the society of the player, however humble his talents may be, there is frequently found a peculiar fascination of manner, for he is intelligent and reflective; each day he acquires something new, his thoughts are ever busy, and he delights to add to his store of knowledge. Human nature is his chief study, and in that great open book which teaches so much, yet is so difficult to read, the actor cons many of his most useful lessons. An actor is no companion for the multitude; he lives in a little world, peopled by his fancy's creations: the true actor is, during the time that he is before the audience, the character which he represents on the stage, whether it be that of a king, a robber, or a mendicant; thus, half his life is passed in wild, changing dreams.

At length Julius grew too big for children's parts, so he was "sent on" in processions, chorusses, and mobs: sometimes he had a line to deliver, and that one line, though it was only to inform Lady Betty Faddle that her carriage waited, was esteemed by Julius as something better than banner-bearing. But, alas! such favours as the aboverecorded message-delivery were of rare occurrence; for Julius did not fit the suits of livery worn by the farcefootman, and being almost smothered by an amplitude of garment, his appearance on the stage was always hailed with shouts of laughter, much to the annoyance of the manager, who, being the low comedian of the theatre, as a matter of course, desired to monopolize the laughter of the audience. Julius had reached an awkward age, the manager said, and his services were worth neither meat nor drink. The youth was piqued at this observation, and resolved to seek his fortune elsewhere; behind another row of footlights he might perhaps find more sympathy; at all events, he would try what he could do the world lay open to him, as well as to others; therefore he would at once go forth alone. He had heard of London, and of the fame and fortune achieved by actors in the great metropolis-nay, he had been told that they had carriages of their own, in which they rode about like real lords and ladies. Julius pondered and fretted till he lost flesh and fitted the livery worse than ever. The manager swore at him, and one night, in a fit of chagrin, the enraged youth tore off the scarlet plush inexpressibles, with a secret determination of never putting them on again.

The next morning Julius rose at daybreak, counted over his little store of money for the fiftieth time, and collected his scanty wardrobe, which he carefully tied up in an old cotton handkerchief. Having completed the important task of packing, he wrote with a piece of chalk, on the door of his garret, a few words, which he entitled "a farewell letter to his parents," who were fast asleep in the next apartment. Fastening his little bundle to the end of a stick, he stole down the creaking, carpetless stairs of his miserable home, opened the street door, and passed out. For some minutes he paused, then shouldered his stick, again counted his money, and descended the house steps. Then he mused, knit his brows, and gazed vacantly up the street; anon he turned round, and bestowed the same amount of gazing in the contrary direction. "Which road should he pursue?" he asked himself. Shutting his eyes, he rapidly performed a pirouette on the pavement. "So," he said, still keeping his eyes closed, "I'll turn to my right, whether it be up the street, or down the street; so here goes for what dad calls a teetotum," -saying which, Julius made another pirouette, opened his eyes, and speedily proceeded on the road leading to Wigan. Julius walked eight miles without once resting. Ay, there was the eighth milestone; he had been walking for two hours, as near as he could reckon; and, as he started when the church clocks were striking four, it must, of necessity, be now six o'clock. He felt very hungry and sleepy, for he was not in the habit of rising early. How lonely he thought → himself, too, as he sat with his back against the stone, and gazed into the sky! The scene was novel to the youth, who had lived all his young life in large manufacturing towns, amid the gas and artificial glare of a theatre by night, and the dark atmosphere of gloomy streets, many of which consisted of rows of cotton warehouses, by day. How merrily the birds sang, and how sweet and balmy was the fresh morning air! Julius drew forth from his bundle a large crust of bread, and, with a cheerful spirit, commenced his frugal breakfast. He compared himself with Whittington, the poor boy who became Lord Mayor of London. Julius wished the bells would ring, that he might, out of their sound, read his fortune. He was not far from a church, for he could see the spire of one above the trees in the distance -the tinkling bells might speak to him of the future, as truly as they spoke to Whittington, for, after all, who was Whittington, he should like to know? He wasn't an actor. Julius didn't believe he even knew who Shakspeare was; then, of course, he was a nobody-a mere nobody, whose name had never been in print, whose voice even had never been heard. If such a numskull of a boy could become a lord mayor, what mightn't Julius some day become? Why, Edmund Kean, of whom he'd heard so much, had once been a very poor lad in one of Richardson's booths, and he rose higher than a lord mayor-higher than a king, Julius thought; for he became the greatest actor the world had ever known. Who, then, could tell what Dame Fortune had in store for Julius Cave?

After the youth had eaten his bread, he recommenced his march without the remotest notion of whither he was journeying. All the cash in his possession was three shillings, the pinchings of many a meal, which he had changed into sixpences that the sum might seem larger; for though Julius knew well the value of money, and also how far it would go, he was willing to cheat himself into a belief that the sixpences were all shillings. The young adventurer trudged onward musingly. Was there a theatre in the town which he saw before him? If not, he must walk on to the next. Julius considered theatres essentially necessary to the well-being of society, and as indispensable as churches and