cessful efforts: we have the more pleasure in relating this as, it shows under cover of an apparent icy reserve,

"Still glows the warmth of genial heat

In stern Macalpine's breast."

While we are on this "trail," we may as well relieve our recollection of another anecdote, illustrating the peculiarities of two men so well known as Wordsworth and the great tragedian.

Mr. Macready on his return from some engagement in Edinburg, called on Wordsworth, and was persuaded by the old bard to remain all night they wandered about, talked of the drama, and parted, mutually pleased with each other. Shortly afterward, a friend who knew Macready intimately, inquiring of Wordsworth what he thought of his visiter, received from the aged poet the following account. “I was much pleased with him indeed. He is a quiet, modest, unassuming man: without the slightest taint of conceit-in short, I gathered from what he said, about acting, that he is a bad actor, and he knows it: between ourselves, he confessed as much to me." Our friend's amusement may be easily conceived at this instance of the Poet Laureate's discrimination; it is, however, a curious instance of Mr. Macready's "private theatricals."

To return, however, to the story in question, which shows the eminent actor in a very amiable point of view; the simplicity of his guest is truly ludicrous.

A gentleman, of the name of Prichard, having failed as an actor, settled down into the more useful occupation of stage-manager of Drury Lane Theatre. He had the peculiarity of being an extravagant admirer of celebrity, but the chief idol of his worship was Mr. Macready. His delight was intense when he heard that the great tragedian was engaged to play a number of his favorite

characters. It seemed to be an honor to hear him talk. He resolved, therefore, to show him every attention.

On Mr. Macready's first visit he was almost driven to despair by the reserved manners of the actor, who seemed a frozen man with the powers of locomotion. He, notwithstanding, paid unremitting attention to the hero of his worship: looked to the fire in his dressing-room, placed lofty wax tapers there, and by a thousand delicate services expressed his deference. After a week's perseverance he was rewarded by an inclination of his idol's head. A few days more the face ripened into a smile: then came a more rapid thawing; and one morning Mr. Macready was so touched by the deferential respect and attention of the stage-manager that he actually spoke to him, "Good morning, Mr. Prichard." Balaam was not more astounded at his donkey's speech, than Prichard at his lion's condescension-in a little time it ripened into "Good morning, Prichard!" and one morning, never to be forgotten by the obsequious Prichard, Mr. Macready said, "Prichard, you don't look well; you want a change of air! I have a little cottage at Elstree; come down on Saturday and stay till Monday." In a state of speechless rapture the admiring stage-manager accepted the invitation. Never minutes crawled so slowly as those which intervened; at length the blissful time arrived, and in a state of joyful trepidation the highly honored man mounted the stage that was to convey him to this terrestrial seventh heaven. No monarch on his throne sat with a greater pride. He looked as though he felt all the passengers knew he was going to see Mr. Macready. His look seemed to proclaim,

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Gentlemen, I am actually going on a visit to the great Mr. Macready-what do you think of that!" In due time he was deposited at the door of the cottage. Mr. Macready received him at the porch, led him to the parlor, and then told his servant to show Mr. Prichard his room. In this neat little dormitory the bewildered visiter endeavored to calm the tumultuous rapture of his mind. Af

ter some little delicate devotion to his toilet he descended to the parlor, where he was introduced to Mrs. Macready. "My dear, this is my kind friend, Mr. Prichard, whose attention to me at the theatre I have named to you." Mrs. Macready, in her usual ladylike manner welcomed him. Mr. Prichard flowered a little and said, "The pleasure he felt in showing his respect for so resplendant a genius as Mr. Macready was his greatest happiness and reward," &c. He was interrupted in his blushing and glowing enumeration by the tragedian's saying, "We don't dine till six, we shall have time for a stroll in the garden and paddock." Mr. Macready pointed out in his sententious way the wonders around. "That is my little paddock-there is my boy's horse-there is a small hen." Mr. Prichard put forth a word or two of rhetoric. 'How blissful for a man of genius, tired with the fret and fever of the world to retire, and in the calm seclusion," and so on. Mr. Macready nipped this fine crop of oratory by saying, "That's a cow, it supplies our family with milk." "Happy cow, (exclaimed the manager,) to supply so great a man's family with milk." Prichard in the intense adoration of the minute wished himself a cow! As Jupiter for love of Iö turned himself into a bull, so would Prichard have done the synonymous for Mr. Macready.

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Behold Mr. Prichard actually seated at the same table with Mr. and Mrs. Macready! In the course of the evening the courteous host happened to say to this simple-minded manager, “Prichard, make yourself at home; ask for whatever you want; I have a warm bath in the house; one would, I am sure, do you good; if you think so, you have only to ring; tell my man;-it is prepared in a minute -now don't stand on any ceremony-it is no trouble."

Dinner passed off; Mr. Macready was condescending the manager seemed translated; towards midnight he was led to his room by his hero, and told that he was to consider himself at home, and do as he liked. Left alone, he gave himself up to a variety of pleasing

reflections; lapped in this reverie, time slid on unconsciously; at last the words of Mr. Macready, "a warm bath will do you good; it gives no trouble; it is prepared in a minute" fastened upon him with a fatal fascination. "It will do me good" involuntarily exclaimed Prichard; "I feel overpowered with the sensations that have rushed through me; I will have one; Mr. Macready pressed me to take it; he will be offended if I don't; I would not wound his feelings for the world." His hand instinctively pulled the bell; like fear in Collin's Ode,

"He back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made."

The tinkling ceased; dead silence; again the bell was rung louder ; no one came; Prichard gave up the idea of his bath and thanked the abortive ringing; at length, just as he was preparing to get into bed there was a rap at his door with a half sleepy “Did you ring, sir?" "I should like to have a warm bath," faintly ejaculated Prichard, half suspecting the absurdity of the request; warm bath, sir?" said the servant. "Yes, Mr. Macready said I could have a warm bath." The servant vanished, and went to his master's bed-room door and rapped; the great actor was sleeping, no doubt dreaming of histrionic triumphs, with no Astor House in the vista.

Mrs. Macready was the first to hear this unusual sound. She listened a minute space, then touching the modern Macbeth's arm, said, "William, what is that?" a deep guttural growl was the response.

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Again the lady at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied."

William, pray wake, I tell you I hear a noise. I thought I heard a bell ring twice before; William, pray wake, I am getting alarmed." When Mr. Macready was thoroughly awake, he sat up in bed. "Who is that?" said he, "Me, sir," said the servant, "What do

you mean by disturbing us in the middle of the night?" "Please, sir, Mr. Prichard wants a warm bath!" "A warm bath!" gasped his master, "does he know it is the dead waste and middle of the

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night? a warm bath, ha! ha!" continued he, was there no pond on his road hither that he could have washed in? a warm bath, hah! hah! Rouse all the servants; let him have his bath; a bath! a bath! his kingdom for a bath!" saying this he sunk hysterically on the pillow.

In 1836 Mr. Dickens married Miss Catharine Hogarth, and to all human appearance the union has been a happy one; they have a family of seven children, the eldest a boy of about twelve years. His two last boys he has named after Alfred Tennyson and Francis Jeffreys, a piece of vanity unworthy so shrewd an observer of human nature.

In 1843 he visited America, but this is too well known to need any reference to beyond the mere fact. We may, however, say in passing, that much of the unsatisfactory nature of that visit is chargeable to the injudicious course taken by the very respectable body of gentlemen, who, totally ignorant of the peculiar temperament of the distinguished novelist, somewhat officiously, though doubtless with the best intentions, took charge of him, and, in short, placed him under a complete surveillance, which impeded that free observation and genial intercourse with the masses which is absolutely necessary to the formation of a just opinion of the American people.

He has since passed a year in Italy, and another in Switzerland. He is fond of a trip to Paris, but the volatile manners of that vivacious nation seem to escape him, or baffle his powers of fixing on the canvas. It may be that he is unable to depict the finer traits of more polished life, and therefore wisely chooses the coarser and more boldly developed features of English and American manners to paint from; be it as it may, it is only as a sketcher of low life