Leaves from an Actor's Note Book, with Reminiscences and Chit Chats of the Green Room and the Stage, in England and America. By George Vandenhoff. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1859.

We have seldom read a more amusing book than this Autobiography of an Actor. The author's style is natural, his humour considerable, and the number and character of his adventures in both hemispheres, detailed as they are with wonderful spirit and vivacity, all conjoin to make his work uninterruptedly entertaining.

We cannot give the reader a better idea of the graphic manner in which Mr. Vandenhoff writes, of his sprightliness and wit, than by quoting the following scene, which he rightly calls "A Succinct Settlement."

The actor, it seems, had left London for the "provinces." He is engaged for a few nights by the manager of a small theatre, somewhere in Lancashire, and, after a successful performance of Othello, enter the said manager for the purpose literally of "dividing the spoils."

"The house, as I had prophesied, was well filled; and, after the performance, I had my first interview and settlement with the manager: and a strange settlement it was.

He walked into my room as I had just finished my change of dress, and washed off the last tint of Othello's swarthy hue; and said, with a strong Lancashire accent

'Moy name's Parish, sir; A'm th' manager of this cuncearn, and aw've coomb to settle.'

'Good evening, Mr. Parish; I hope you're pleased with the house to-night.' 'It's a foine (fine) house, sir; yaw've doon well and every neet (night) I expect yaw'll do better. Yaw've got th' stoof in yaw, and th' chaps loike you.'

I bowed-he went on.

'A don't know haw much is in th' ouse; A haven't counted th' brass (money); but I took it all mysen', and so there's no cheating here.'

With that, he turned his back to my dressing-table, and emptied out of his

coat-pockets, as I looked on with wonder, a large quantity of silver and copper. Having turned his coat-pockets thoroughly out, he next put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and fished out a £5 note, which he laid down on the table; and lastly, he pulled from the pockets of his pants a couple of sovereigns; those also he deposited with the rest of the current coin of the realm, saying

Theere! theere it aw is, just as A tuk it. Now th' bargain is auf and afe (half and half); pretty stiff terms, maister, but yaw've airnt it (earned it); so count away; and yaw tak afe and A'll tak afe; and then all 'll be straight 'twixt you and me."

So down we sat to count the brass;' the £5 note, with the two sovereigns upon it, were placed in isolated dignity, as became their aristocratic denomination and value, at one side; the copper we piled into shilling-heaps of twelve pennies, and the silver into heaps of twenty shillings, or, more frequently, of forty sixpences (the price of the gallery being sixpence), representing the £1 sterling.

During this interesting financial operation,' not a word was spoken on either side; the piles being duly made up, it appeared on counting them, that there were twenty pounds, ten shillings, in silver, and two pounds and sixpence in copper; which, with the £5 note and the £2 in gold, amounted to twenty-nine pounds, ten shillings and sixpence. (about $150 ;) large receipts for a small country theatre, I can tell you!-(I have seen less in a very large one, with a good company, and two or three London actors in the cast.)

Well, Mr. Parish was evidently no Michael Cassio-no great arithmetician; but, after some little difficulty, he gra dually, after a good deal of puzzling and scratching of his head, (there was no pen, pencil or paper in the room.) satis fied himself that the half of £29 10s. 6d. was £14 15s. 3d.: whereupon, making an exact division, he said

"Theere! theere's thy share, and here's moine; A 've given thee th gowd (gold) and th' flimsy (bank-note),

'cause A s'pose yaw won't be wanting to carry the copper; and A can pay it away to moy fowks (folks) at onest. So that's settled,' said he.

And a very simple and straightforward settlement, too, Mr. Parish!'

Whoy yaw see, sir," (he replied.) 'A'm not much i' th' littery loine (literary line); moine's mostly head-work; A don't do mooch wi' pen an' ink. A 'm a scaffolder, Oi am!

'A scaffolder! Mr. Parish?' 'Aye; we're open-air chaps, we are; we play under canvass i' th' summer, and i' th' winter A 'm forced to go into th' regular business, in walls; and it welly ruins me. But yaw see, 1 mun keep my people together agin th' summer time, or A should lose 'em However. yaw'll find me aw reet (right), upreet and downreet. And now, sir, we mun hae a glass togither, if yaw please, just to wet th' first neet, and for luck for th' others.'

With that he pulled a bottle of brandy out of a capacious side-pocket, (I had observed the neck of it sticking out, and guessed its purpose,) poured me out a rather stiff allowance, in the one glass which was in the room, assuring me that it was the 'reet sort. I added some water, which he declared would 'spile (spoil) it,' and drank to his health.

He then poured himself out about half a tumbler, and without running the risk of spoiling it by any elemental addition, shook hands with me in the most cordial manner, wished me luck,' and drank it off.

This was the system of settlement he followed every night; and, looking back on the many theatres I have played in since, and the many managers that have settled with me, I am inclined to think that though it was not the most formal, or high-Roman fashion' of settlement, it was, perhaps, the fairest and honestest that I have ever been favoured with."

Twelve years of a Soldier's Life in India; being extracts from the Letters of the late Major W. S. R. Hodson, B. A., (Trinity College, Cambridge,) First Bengal European Fusileers, Commandant of" Hodson's Horse," including a personal narrative of the siege of Delhi, &c., &c. Edited by his brother, with an Introduction from Thomas Hughes. Ticknor & Fields, Boston: 1859.

We hear almost daily from the lips of the shallow sentimentalist that the "days of Chivalry are gone." There is no manhood, no virtue or nobility of soul to be found on earth! And truly,

to one who lives in the midst of the whirl and rush of trade-who is brought into habitual contact with the hard selfishness of the business world, it would seem that the sentimentalist is not so far wrong after all!

But suddenly a crisis arises, some great crisis, connected with the interests or the existence of nations, and then from the most unexpected quarters, heroes, full-armed and indomitable, spring up, and deeds are done which cause our hearts to thrill within us, proving that the race of earth's spiritual nobles is not yet extinct.

Such a crisis, and so fruitful of glorious actions, was the terrible Indian mutiny of 1857, when the soul of England" and the world, was more profoundly moved, than it had been within the "memory of living man.”

"It was a time," says Hughes, in his introduction to the work under review, "of real agony; the waiting week after week for those scanty despatches, which when they came, and lay before us in the morning papers, with huge capitals at the top of the column, we scarcely dared take up-we could not read without a strong effort of the will. What it must have been to those of us whose sisters, brothers, sons were then in the north-west provinces, they alone can tell; but for the rest, we do believe there was scarce a man, who did not, every now and then, feel a cold sinking of the heart-a sense of shame at his inability to help a longing to make some sacrifice of money, ease, or what not, whereby to lift, as it might be, a portion of the dead weight from off his own soul."

Of the English heroes, who distinguished themselves, above all others, as well as above all praise, in this Indian revolution, there can be no doubt that the subject of the memoir (for such it really is), which we are about to examine, deserves the very first place.

WILLIAM STEPHEN RAIKES HODSON, third son of the Archbishop of Stafford, was born in March, 1821. When about fourteen years old, he went to Rugby. There he remained for four years, two of which were spent in the "sixth form," under the great Dr. Arnold. He is described as "a bright pleasant boy, full of fun, with abilities above the average, but of no marked distinction, except as a runner, in which exercise he was unequalled, and showed great powers of endurance "

"None of his old school-fellows," Hughes goes on to say, "have been surprised to hear of his success as head of the Intelligence Department of an army, or of his marvellous marches, and appearances in impossible places, as captain of irregular Horse!

"It would have done your heart good," says Hodson (who was second in command of this corps), "to see the welcome they gave me ; cheering and shouting, and crowding round me like frantic creatures. ** Many officers present hardly knew what to make of it, and thought the men were mobbing me!" &c.

Next day (10th of June) "the ball opens."

The insurgents attacked the English position.

"I had" (writes Hodson,) "the command of all the troops on our right-the gallant Guides' among the rest. They followed me with a cheer, behaved with their usual pluck, and finally drove the enemy in with loss."

Again, on the 12th of June, there was "a sharp fight, ending as usual. The enemy were severely punished."

Skirmishes of this description went on from day to day. But, at last, Delhi is taken. How terrific the conflict must have been, may be gathered by the enensuing entry in Hodson's journal:

"You may count," he writes, "our real officers on your fingers now! My own preservation was miraculous.

"Sept. 16th.-I grieve much," he proceeds to say, "for poor Jacob. We buried him and three sergeans of the regiment last night. He was a noble soldier. His death has made me captain-the long-wished for "goal;" but I would rather have served as a subaltern than gained promotion thus!

"Sept. 19th.-We are making slow progress in the city. The troops are utterly demoralized by hard work and hard drink.

'Sept. 22d.--In the Royal Palace, Delhi!! I was unable to write yesterday, having had a hard day's work. I was fortunate enough to capture the king and his favourite wife.

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To-day, more fortunate still, I have seized and destroyed the king's two sons, and a grandson (the infamous Abu Bukt), the villains who ordered the massacre of our women and children, &c."

This is Hodson's truly modest account of what Mr. Hughes properly calls "the two most remarkable events, even in his career."

Hodson was bitterly condemned by some persons in England and elsewhere, for "shooting the two princes."

He does not attempt a defence, perhaps we should rather say, he does not condescend to one, but simply writes:

"Strange! that some of those who are loudest against me for sparing the king, are also crying out at my destroying his sons. ** I am indifferent to clamour either way. I made up my

mind to be abused. I was convinced I was right, however, and these are not the times, when a man who would serve his country, dare hesitate as to the personal consequences to himself!"

But we must hasten to record the end. For a week, the siege of Lucknow had gone on, and work after work of the enemy had fallen.

On the 11th March, the Begum's palace was to be assaulted. Hodson had orders to remove his regiment nearer to the walls. While choosing a spot for his camp, he heard firing, rode on, and found his friend, Brigadier Napier directing the assault. He joined him, and they entered the breach together. Soon after, Hodson was shot through the chest. The next morning, the doctors declared the wound mortal, and the dying soldier sent to Napier to give his last instructions.

"He lay," says Napier, "on his bed of mortal agony, and met death with the calm composure which so much distinguished him on the field of battle. He was conscious and peaceful, uttering occasionally the sentence, "My poor wife! My poor sisters! I should have liked to have seen the end of this campaign, and gone home to the dear ones once more-but, but-it was so ordered! * * Bear witness for me, that I have tried to do my duty to man; now I go to my Father! ** My love to my wife; tell her my last thoughts were of her! Lord! receive my soul!"

"These were his last words, and without a sigh or struggle, that noble spirit took its flight!" &c.

Thus perished, in the prime of his manhood and his fame, one of the bravest and most heroic men that ever upheld the honour of "Old England," or dignified the annals of human virtue!

Henry St. John, Gentleman of "Flower of Hundreds," in the County of Prince George, Virginia. A Tale of 1774-75. By John Esten Cooke. Harper & Bros. New York.

In the autumn of 1854, while encountering the horrors of a stormy voyage from New York to Charleston, it was our good fortune to get possession of a novel just published, with the engaging title of "The Virginia Comedians."

We opened the book languidly, and in the worst possible humor, for the demon of sea-sickness had but slightly relaxed his grasp, and we felt captious, peevish, and disposed to quarrel with all mankind.

Painfully we read the first paragraphs of the "Prologue," but insensibly our interest deepened; the glow of the style, the flush and fervour of warm imagina

tions, an almost tropic luxuriance of imagery and description, first caught the attention, and then absorbed the mind. Here, we said, is a truly bold, free and vigorous writer, of picturesque power, keen observation, and rarely delicate sensibilities. What an eye for the rich aspects of nature! How subtly, and yet with what gorgeous strength he paints the autumn sunsets and the autumn woods! In fact, the whole "Prologue" is a prose-poem, steeped in the colours of the warmest fancy, and redolent, so to speak, of the "Odours of the South!"

We were hardly less fascinated by the story which succeeded it—a narrative of vivid interest, of rapid, often dramatic action, coherent, and graphic in its characterization, and, although in technical phrase, somewhat inartistically "put together," yet, upon the whole, so life-like in its pictures of society, (the society of the "Old Dominion" a century or more ago), and exhibiting so much of reserved force, as well as present and active imagination, that we at once perceived that a writer of true genius had stepped upon the stage of authorship.

That he was a Southerner we could not doubt, for a certain proud loyalty to Virginia, a minute acquaintance with her history, and the magnificent scenery of her forests and mountains, and, above all, the free, almost careless exuberance and richness of his style, appeared to indicate his birth-place, and association with an impetuous, high-spirited and noble people.

Subsequently we learned that the author of the "Virginia Comedians" was John Esten Cooke, whose name had already been made famous in the world of letters by his lamented elder brother, who wrote the sweet dirge of "Florence Vane," and those grand "Froissart Ballads," whose ringing rhythm stirs the blood as with the "sound of a trumpet!"

From 1854 to the present time, Mr. Cooke has been constantly engaged in writing. Having once fairly buckled on his literary harness, he determined, doubtless, to work consistently, faithfully, without intermission to the last. He composes with marvellous rapidity. In somewhat less than five years, a series of "Historical Romances," besides several beautiful love tales, have been contributed by him to the literature (the best part of the literature) of the South and the country.

Among the "Romances" which we have termed "Historical," there are, of course, many degrees of merit. Speak ing generally, we would say that Mr. Cooke is most successful in his purely descriptive, or his purely passionate

scenes. Although possessed of a very pleasant humour," he is apt in his lighter portraitures, whether of men or things, to be diffuse, and occasionally to exaggerate, so that the result verges upon caricature.

Mr. Cooke's last work-the novel we are about to review-will, by many, be considered his finest production. It belongs properly to the "historical" series, as the writer's purpose is, not only to paint the manners of the Virgi nia "provincials" during the Governorship of the notorious Dunmore, but to present a true picture of the stirring events of that epoch, bearing, as they did, more or less immediately, upon the great Revolutionary struggle, which was destined so soon to follow them.

The author's end is partly accomplished through the medium of a story which relates the fortunes of two very interesting persons, viz.: Mr. Henry St. John, the hero, and a beautiful, brown-tressed maiden, his cousin, introduced to us under the charming name of Miss Bonnybel Vane.

It is the fashion with many recent novelists altogether to eschew a plot; either they confine their efforts to the minute psychological development of character, or they throw together a bundle of isolated scenes, bound by the thinnest cord of a common and connecting interest; trusting to the elaboration of particular parts, and undisguisedly careless of the "unities" of time, place, and circumstance.

Mr. Cooke, we are glad to say, does not belong to this class of writers

He perceives clearly, and he acts upon the perception. that "a plot" in the drama, or the novel, is only a succinct phrase to express that harmoniousness of general conception, whereby the separate details are brought into the close union, and arranged according to the natural sequence of events as they occur in our actual lives.

In other words, he repudiates, in his practice (and doubtless, upon a stern, artistic principle), the superficial theory which conveniently ignores invention, and would modestly substitute for it a species of narrow, spasmodic vigour, wholly destitute of the capacity to generalize and to create what may rightly be considered a representative character, or a typical picture of some remarkable era of time.

The truth of this observation is sig nally exemplified in the plan of the tale, to which we have referred. Let us draw briefly an outline of its design, and the nature of the incidents introduced to develop it. Its purpose is a double one. in the author's own words, "his volume has two themes-two aims; the story of a man and a woman; the history,