oo proud, to learn from their _inferiors,_ the
fowls of the air and beasts of the field.

* * * * *

NOTES OF A READER.

THE LATE MRS. SIDDONS.

The subsequent account of Mrs. Siddons, nearly fifty years since, will
perhaps give the reader a better outline of that "Queen of Tragedy"
than any that has since appeared. We ought to mention that it is
quoted from Mr. Boaden's _Memoirs_, and was written on the appearance
of Mrs. Siddons in the character of Isabella, for the first time in
London, October 10, 1782. Mr. Boaden thus introduces the quotation, in
vol. i. of his work:--

As the person of our great actress has undergone some change, and her
features by time became stronger, I should find it difficult now to
describe her accurately by memory, as she stood before the audience on
the night of the 10th of October. I am relieved from this difficulty
by an account of her written at the time. I shall change only a few of
the expressions then used, more from a feeling as to composition than
alteration as to sentiment.

There never, perhaps, was a better stage-figure than that of Mrs.
Siddons. Her height is above the middle size, but not at all inclined
to the _em-bon-point_. There is, notwithstanding, nothing sharp or
angular in the frame; there is sufficient muscle to bestow a roundness
upon the limbs, and her attitudes are, therefore, distinguished
equally by energy and grace. The symmetry of her person is exact and
captivating. Her face is peculiarly happy, the features being finely
formed, though strong, and never for an instant seeming overcharged,
like the Italian faces, nor coarse and unfeminine under whatever
impulse; on the contrary, it is so thoroughly harmonized when
quiescent, and so expressive when impassioned, that most people think
her more beautiful than she is; so great, too, is the flexibility of
her countenance, that the rapid transitions of passion are given with
a variety and effect that never tire upon the eye. Her voice is
naturally plaintive, and a tender melancholy in her level speaking
denotes a being devoted to tragedy; yet this seemingly settled quality
of voice becomes at will sonorous or piercing, overwhelms with rage,
or in its wild shriek absolutely harrows up the soul. Her sorrow, too,
is never childish--her lamentation has a dignity which belongs, I
think, to no other woman: it claims your respect along with your
tears. Her eye is brilliant an