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mates that " a burnt child dreads the fire," and the audience will in time doubtless become more wary. Miss Kelly is very fond of the Mermaid Song; if she would take the trouble of listening once to Mrs. Austin's delightful manner of giving it, it might have the beneficial effect of stopping any further operations on that piece of music.

We have spoken plainly of this lady for two reasons: first, because she is as popular as ever, and therefore need not shrink from having her merits canvassed; had she been declining in the public estimation, we should have been the last to say any thing about her, but she still claims to rank as a star, and one of the first magnitude too, and therefore of course lays herself the more open to remark; she enjoys all the privileges and immunities of that station, probably receiving a more liberal remuneration for half a dozen evenings than is awarded to actresses of what we consider decidedly superior abilities, such as Mrs. Hilson and Mrs. Wheatley, for months of unremitting exertion, and with these substantial advantages she ought at least to take the slight disadvantages of such a station. In the second place, Miss Kelly, from appearances, is a woman of spirit, and one not likely to be popped off by a paragraph like John Keats the poet, who, in coroner's language, "came by his death in consequence of a criticism."

MRS. SHARPE.

THIS lady, though a favorite with the public, scarcely holds that place in their estimation which might be expected from her varied and manifold qualifications. The parts, to be sure, in which she generally appears, do not admit of any brilliant display of talent, and therefore Mrs. Sharpe's sensible and spirited manner of performing them only elicits a moderate share of approbation, though the aggregate pleasure derived from her performances is probably greater than from those of many who claim a loftier station in the profession. She is the Mrs. Woodhull of the Park theatre-that is, she holds the same rank in the feminine department, which that worthy gentleman does in the masculine, and is, like him, endowed in a high degree, with the yankee faculty of turning her hand to any thing. She is a very fair singer, an excellent "walking lady," and a capital comedian. Besides,

she has somewhat of a "genius for the tragic," or rather, a tolerable knack at declamation, and scolds in blank verse "with good emphasis and discretion." The necessities of the theatre, we presume, caused her to appear once or twice as Elvira during the past season; and although it is a character altogether out of her line, she performed it better than any woman we have seen attempt it on these boards. She looked well as the haughty Spanish beauty—“ disdain and scorn rode sparkling in her eyes" and in the fourth act she rated Pizarro in good round terms. This, however, is not the department in which Mrs. S. must hope to attain excellence. In comedy she is always happy, and divides the chambermaid business with the inimitable Mrs. Wheatley, without losing much by the comparison. She also takes charge of the characters of nearly all the young and middle-aged ladies. Now, there are plenty of actresses who undertake to do the same thing, but unfortunately they cannot change their manners with their dress, and continue just as vulgar in silk as they were in calico; being evidently nothing better than dressedup chambermaids. This is not the case with Mrs. Sharpe, she can scold, lie, and flirt like a waitingwoman, and look, speak, and act like a lady—she can be boisterous in the kitchen, and stately in the hall— 20

VOL. II.

and can jilt a footman or reject a knight with equal skill and dexterity. By the way, she has an uncommonly picturesque manner of repulsing improper overtures; when playing an innocent maid, wife, or widow, and any of the stage libertines go down on their knees and unfold their wicked intentions, she has a style of curling her lip, flashing her eye, folding her arms, and drawing up her person with an air of insulted virtue, which must produce a prodigious moral effect upon the kneeling sinner and the attentive audience. In parts, likewise, where an union of good acting and tolerable singing is required, such as Georgette Clairville or Donna Anna, in Don Giovanni, it would be difficult to find her equal.

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE.

"Summer has flown on swallow's wings,
And earth has buried all her flowers;
No more the lark-the linnet sings-
But silence sits in faded bowers."

SPRING has ripened into summer, summer has mellowed into autumn, autumn has withered into winter, and now that old vagabond, eighteen hundred and thirty-two (who took away Sir Walter Scott, and spared the emperor Nicholas) has but a few more hours to linger before father Time ejects him out of existence, and hands him over to oblivion for peaceable interment. Well, let him go. The hearty, vigorous eighteen hundred and thirty-three will soon be of age, and come into possession of his estate, this snug, cozy little earth, on which we get our dinners, and perform other pleasurable functions, but at which some people of bad tastes and superfine imaginations pretend to turn up their ungrate

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