Lyceum; and in 1810 an opera was performing there in which Braham sung a very popular song, called the "Death of Nelson." My Husband, conversing one day with Lady Hamilton, was questioned by her as to the merits of the new opera, at the same time stating her intention of accompanying some friends of hers to the theatre that evening. Mr. Mathews considerately advised her ladyship to forego her intentions, explaining that there was a song in the piece, the subject of which he was sure would touch her feelings, and distress her very much.

Whether Lady Hamilton forgot this prudent warning, or whether she suffered her desire to listen to the hero's praise to overcome her apprehension of the result, or from whatever cause, it so fell out that Mr. Mathews perceived the lady duly seated in a private-box with her little adopted, Horatia, at her side. It needed no ghost to tell him the scene that would follow, and as soon, therefore, as he quitted the stage, seeing Spring, he thus addressed him, first taking out his watch and looking at it with a solemn and earnest expression of face:

Spring, I give you notice that in about twenty minutes past nine o'clock " (the usual period when the "Death of Nelson" occurred) "a large lady, now sitting in the stage-box opposite, will be taken very ill and require assistance: do not be out of the way on any account, but at the time mentioned be ready with a glass of water and a smelling-bottle, for she will be attacked with a violent fit at the

period I have mentioned." Spring looked into Mr. Mathew's face with a faint smile upon his lips, which immediately subsided into a thoughtful expression of countenance, and Mr. M. observed after this that he never stirred from the side-scene, but kept a constant watch upon the box pointed out to him. At length the critical period arrived; Braham began his song, and before the second verse finished, sobs and cries were heard all over the small theatre. Spring rushed into the green-room "pale as his shirt," and running up to the slab whereon the customary decanter of water stood, seized it with the glass, hastened away with it to the fatal box, exclaiming with an awe-struck voice as he hastily passed Mr. Mathews behind the scenes,-" Oh, Sir, you are a conjuror! The lady is in strong convulsions!" Spring, who had not the most remote knowledge of the cause of the lady's illness, nor of the associations which occasioned such an effect, from that moment viewed this intimation as a crowning evidence of the supernatural power in the individual to seize upon coming events so as to cast their shadows before, and thenceforward Spring looked upon Mathews as a man superior to the usual order of Nature's journeywork, and entertained the profoundest faith in his faculty of forecast and his insight into things not open to the mental vision of less-gifted mortals.

MEREDETH, THE SINGER.

THERE was, some years ago, an epidemic raging in Yorkshire for vocal performances of sacred music, not only at the opening of churches, but of every other building not strictly of a private nature. Every combination of brick and mortar, at its completion-in order to mark the interesting epoch, and, haply, immortalize at once the projector and builder of the edifice-was commemorated by a musical festival.

Mr. Meredeth, the then-celebrated bass singer, had come from London to display his abilities in several parts of Yorkshire. He was extremely popular as a vocalist in that county, and universally sought after, upon the occasions mentioned.

This gentleman travelling from Leeds to Wakefield at the above period, in a stage-coach, the day after his performance at the former place, in order to fulfil an engagement that night at the latter, was accosted on the road, where the coach stopped for a few minutes to deliver some parcels, by a large, sleek, reputable-looking man who, abruptly opening the door of the vehicle, eagerly demanded—

Pray, is there one Mister Meredeth i't' coich?" "Yes," replied the person named; "I am Mr. Meredeth; what, pray, may you have to say to

me?"

L

"Whoy," resumed the man, "I want t'engage thee, then, for a bit o' singing, loike, and should be glad to know when thou'lt be at liberty to perform for me?"

The answer being satisfactory as to time, and Mr. Meredeth's usual professional charge for an evening or a morning's exercise of his talents being understood, he begged the person, briefly, before the coach proceeded, to explain where, and on what occasion, his services were to be applied.

'Whoy, then,” replied the singer's new patron, "Thou must know, oive joost built me a new Mill, and oive made up my moind t'open it wi' an Oratorio."

Mr. Meredeth, declining to bring grist to his own mill by such an exhibition of himself, and the coach driving on, the disappointed miller was left to bestow his patronage upon some less fastidious professor.

JONES.

MR. RICHARD JONES, like the majority of stagestruck youths, had very high aspirings when he commenced acting. He was very young-young enough to believe he could represent the heroes of

tragedy, and in fact did, strut and fret his hour upon a small stage, with a distant view of stalking in buskins on a large one. With these intentions, he had enrolled himself in a little provincial company (in Lancashire), on the understanding that he was to perform all the first-rate characters of Shakspeare, although he was unstudied but in two or three.

It so happened that Hamlet had not yet formed a portion of the young tragedian's acquisitions ; but that play being bespoke by some influential patrons of the theatre, not only was Jones called upon to be perfect to order in the youthful Dane, but the rest of the characters were obliged to be enacted by some other spick and span new performers, some of whom-as it will appear—were strangers even to the plot itself! Among these worthies, the Claudius of the night, a perfect stick, was utterly unacquainted with any portion of the play, and to whom a part was presented ready cut and dried, wherein the cues only were set down to study from; giving, of course, a very imperfect insight to the general text and point of his scenes.

Mr. S (a large heavy-headed, leaden-eyed man), who knew little more of the immortal Bard than the name, was sorely puzzled not only to suit the action to the word, but the word to the action; and at the one rehearsal was too much absorbed by the reading of his own character, to take much more notice of