falling of the curtain. Of course, there could be no change of scene. The audience were supposed courteously to imagine when we were talking by moonlight in a wood, or by torchlight in a prison, or by daylight in a lady's boudoir.

The eventful evening so anxiously expected by our little troupe came, and with it a host of visitors. They were presented with neatly-written programmes at the door, and seated in a manner to allow the old people and children a close proximity to the stage. A prologue had been written by a talented friend, (Miss Anna L. Putnam, sister of the publisher,) to be spoken by our youngest little sister Julia, then scarcely four years old. She was my pupil, and I had cause to be proud of her. I think I was more anxious that she should acquit herself brilliantly than that I should perform my own part with éclat. Her talent for the stage, even at that age, was a marvel. She did not speak with parrot-like precision, as though the words had been taught to her; but uttered them as though she comprehended them, knew their full value, and gave them a meaning of her own.

The curtain rose, and she came tripping forward, unshadowed by the touch of fear a round, rosy, lovely child, with a look full of intellect, and a grace which no art could teach. On her fair, curling hair we had placed a wreath of rosebuds and leaves; and she wore a little white dress, looped up with pink ribbons. Her recitation of the prologue seemed to me perfection; and those who were better judges, and still remember it, say that no poem could have been more effectively delivered. Her presence of mind must have been something remarkable, for, the curtain not falling at the right moment, she prettily repeated over the last lines, kissing

PREJUDICE AGAINST THEATRES.

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her hand and courtesying three or four times as she backed up the stage with the knowledge of a veteran artist. This had not been taught to her. As soon as we could catch her in our arms, she was almost smothered with kisses; but she was a calm, self-possessed little creature, free from all vanity, and did not appear in the least excited. She had played her part well, and only wanted to escape into the drawing room, to sit on her mother's knee and watch the others perform.

The play went off with great éclat, as the tears of the audience, bestowed as freely as their applause, amply testified. I enacted the part of Alzire, and succeeded in losing my own identity in that of the heroine. My father came behind the scenes when the play was over, and his words of commendation sank deep in my heart. I wondered if I really deserved them, and if other people would say the same. Our stage dresses were quickly laid aside for ball costume, and the evening ended with dancing and great hilarity.

at first as pupil, and then of enthusiastic admiration -n. I loved to see him

Strange to say, up to this period I had visited a theatre but once, and that only a few weeks before our birthday fête. For some years our parents and their children had all attended the church of Dr. E—————n, now Bishop E-n. I went to Sunday school with my sisters twice every Sunday as teacher. I had a species and reverence for Bishop E enter the Sunday school; I loved to hear him in the pulpit; and was happier all day if he accidentally bestowed upon me a passing word. He disapproved of theatres; he pronounced them the "abodes of sin and wickedness." It never occurred to me to inquire what he really knew of theatres; but I trusted implicitly

in his supposed information. I determined that I never would enter such a dreadful place. My sisters went now and then with our father; but, in spite of my decided passion for plays and for acting, the thought of the imaginary monsters of evil, which I was certainly to behold, kept me away.

Fanny Kemble was then taking her farewell of the stage. Her name was on every body's lips; her praises echoed from all sides. I read critiques upon her acting in the papers, and heard her talked of as a most devoted daughter and truly excellent woman. I could not help longing to see her; but the old objections were strong within me, and I was afraid of being laughed at if I confessed that my interest in the woman made me willing to enter such a place, as I supposed a theatre to be, to see the actress. Her last engagement was drawing to a close. My sisters had witnessed several of her performances, and constantly mentioned them with delight.

One morning my father overtook us as we were walking to school. He accosted my elder sister with, “I am going to take seats to see Fanny Kemble to night in the Hunchback. Would you like to go?"

She, of course, answered in the affirmative. I looked at my father, longing for him to ask me; but I had too often cried down the theatre with childish violence, and quoted Dr. E n as authority. I dared not request that my father would take me.

Just as he was leaving us, he said, carelessly, “ And so you, Anna, are never going?”

I could not resist the temptation, and answered, in a faltering voice, "I should like to see Fanny Kemble just once."

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“O, you have changed your mind? Very well; I will take a seat for you to-night," was his reply.

That day few were the studies to which I attended. I could think of nothing but the theatre, and do nothing. but long for evening to come. It did come at last, after a day that seemed like a week, and to the theatre we went. When we entered the boxes, my first sensation was of bewilderment at the crowd, the lights, the music, the sea of expectant faces beneath us in the pit, and mounting in waves around us and above us. Yet I did not quite forget that there must be some "sin and wickedness which I could not comprehend, and I believe I even asked my father to have the goodness to point out the "harm." He might have told me, what I learned in after years, that the "harm" consisted in the perversion of good to evil; in abuses which had nothing to do with the drama itself; in the poison which evil minds, like spiders, draw from the rose whence the bee sucks but honey.

The curtain ascended, and I was all eyes and ears. Fanny Kemble appeared in the second scene, and I thought I had never beheld any creature so perfectly bewitching. The tones of her voice were richest music, and her dark, flashing eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul. Her "Clifford, why don't you speak to me?" made me start from my seat; and her "Do it!" to Master Walter, electrified me, as indeed it did the whole audience. The play was a reality from beginning to end, and I laughed and wept immoderately.

After the drama, the two Misses Wheatley danced a pas de deux; and though I have since beheld the finest European ballet dancers, none ever made the delightful impressions that those chastely-graceful girls left upon

my mind. I little thought that in after years I should have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with them; no longer children, but most refined and accomplished ladies, exemplary wives, one of them a mother, — and both gracing the high sphere in which they move Their stage garments have long been laid aside; but the stage needs no better defence than the blameless lives of these two admirable and lovely women and their mother.

All my prejudices against the theatre melted "into thin air" with this first night; but I went very seldom, not more than three or four times, I think, while 1 remained at school.