'Siste 'Viator!'—But a little while ago, we published in these pages a brief tribute to the memory of a gifted and distinguished female contributor to the poetical department of this Magazine; and it now becomes our painful duty to record the recent demise of another child of song, with whom our readers have not unfrequently held pleasant communion. We gather from a letter before us, from an attentive literary friend, now in Massachusetts, that J. Huntington Bright, Esq. died recently at Manchester, (Miss.,) at the early age of thirty-three. He was the only son of Jonathan Bright, Esq., of Salem, (Mass.) Early in life he came to this city, where he resided until the death of his parents, when he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Norfolk, (Va.,) where he married. Last autumn he sailed for New-Orleans; and, soon after his arrival, was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in an important mercantile interest at Manchester, a new town, hewn but recently from the forest. Here, undue exposure to the night air brought on the fever of the country; and in this cheerless frontier region, away from his kindred and friends, after an illness of a few hours, he yielded up his gentle spirit. There is an irrepressible melancholy in the thought, that one so open to all the tender influences of affection, should breathe his last far from the endearments of home, and lay his bones among strangers. Yet, to adopt a stanza of a charming fragment written by him for the Knickerbocker:

Mr. Bright, under the signature of 'Viator,' has contributed many gems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the fugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world many of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our readers. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will recommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not less by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades them. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected the book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume of poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. Bright; and we cannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large, as it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and admirers.

We are confident that Mr. Bright was capable of even higher and more sustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions which he has given to the public. There was promise of varied endowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts of the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done no discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild, German-like air, from the opening stanzas:

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Upon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an unseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when he deemed the journey of life but just begun, 'Siste Viator!' rang in his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is indeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is at hand!'

Mr. Bright has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two pledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and the fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!—and may consolation in bereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful language of the dear departed,

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THE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.

'And smooth success be strew'd before thy feet.'—Antony and Cleopatra.

At the close of the late summer season, at the Park Theatre, a young lady from Massachusetts, of about the age of eighteen years, made her 'first appearance on any stage,' as the play-bills phrase it, in the character of 'The Wife of Mantua.'

We learn from authentic sources, that this was by no means the ordinary case of a stage-struck-heroine, gratifying a long-indulged desire to dash upon the boards, with the fond anticipation of achieving immortal renown at a stroke. Nor was it necessity which drove the dÉbutante to the choice of a profession, in which every department is so full of toil, and often of unrequited labor and suffering. Of good family, and having an excellent education, she was early smitten with the love of poetry, especially that of the better and the elder bards; and contracted a habit of reading aloud, which developed, gradually, the talent of expressive and forcible recitation, to a degree which astonished and deeply interested her friends. This talent, strengthened with her increasing knowledge of books and its exercise, led her to think of the histrionic profession as one congenial with her feelings, and enabling her to give such utterance to her appreciations of her favorite poets, as would gratify her own ambition, and that of her friends for her. But of the stage she knew literally nothing, even when this idea found a place in her imagination. She had seen only two or three plays performed, and had gleaned no lessons in the art from any fields but those of her own mind and fancy; and from these, we are happy to predict, she will yet reap an abundant harvest of success and renown.

Having taken some lessons in 'stage business' of one of the most accomplished actresses on the Park boards, and recited some passages, as a specimen of her powers, in the presence of the manager, she was permitted a trial, and chose the night of Mr. Chippendale's Benefit for her dÉbut. She had never seen the character she was to appear in performed, and never fully rehearsed the part, until the very day she came out: and even then, it was hastily rehearsed, and with reference less to the language than the positions, attitudes, etc., of the different characters. Thus, and thus only prepared, she came before a crowded house, to make her first attempt.

Her fine figure, expressive face, and tasteful attire, joined with her modest mien, and graceful, dignified carriage, struck the audience very favorably, and she was received with cheering applause. Soon, to these recommendations she added a clear, distinct and well-modulated voice, the first articulations of which, though low and somewhat timidly tremulous, proved the signal for a repetition of the plaudits of the audience. As the play proceeded, she gained more confidence, though still somewhat constrained, as was quite obvious, by the novelty of her situation, and soon began to give abundant evidence of her right to claim still higher praise, in the fine appreciation of the character she was personating, and in the truth to nature which marked her readings.

Miss Hildreth's performance of Marianna was of course purely an original one. She had been no play-goer, had seen no acting of any consequence, and had never witnessed the representation of 'The Wife.' Her faults were only those which the judicious advice of experienced friends, added to careful study, and a close but not servile observation of good models, will be found fully adequate to remove. These are simply, ignorance of stage-business, and of the magic art of by-play, a knowledge of which comes slowly, with the gradual growth of confidence, and that experience of the stage which a long acquaintance with it gives, and which enables the histrion to think not of the audience, but of the character he is personating. In her perfect understanding of the language set down for her, in the appropriateness of her gesticulation, attitudes, and articulation, while actually reading her own part, she evinced the possession of all the primary and fundamental materials of an actress of the first order; and she has only to work them judiciously, to convince the world, ere long, that ours has not been an erroneous estimate of her abilities.

A contemporary critic has objected to Miss Hildreth's performance of 'Marianna,' that she stood with her arms by her side until her cue was given, when, he concedes, she went through the part allotted to her creditably. This objection, it will be seen, refers to her 'by-play.' We have already touched on this point; and in support of the criticism, would instance the interview of 'Marianna' with St. Pierre, when they discourse of their own native Switzerland. There was none of that exquisite aside-play, (so to speak,) representing the enthusiastic interest which the Swiss girl is supposed to feel in the eloquent descant of her countryman upon its beauties; a feature which gives such a fascinating charm to the personation of the character by Ellen Tree. And was this to be expected, under the circumstances? The whole scene was new to the young dÉbutante. Like ourselves, she too was a looker-on, during that beautiful apostrophe, (never better uttered than then, by Charles Mason,) and in short, was interested, as we were, in all the progress of 'the swelling act;' seemingly forgetting that she was to act while he was acting, and listening even as we were listening, until her cue was given; and then, wherein did she fail?

Certainly, not in the modest yet firm narration of her love-prompted journey from her mountain-home to Mantua, nor in the trial scene before the usurping duke, when, to save herself from brutal violation, she awes the assembled court by threatening 'the slightest motion of her little hand,' as it held the poisoned vial to her lips. Nor in the scenes with her confessor, when she so indignantly spurns the imputation of disloyalty to her lord, and creeps, child-like, to crave accustomed kindness from her ghostly friend, whose mind has been poisoned by a villain's arts against her; nor in the interview with St. Pierre, while she is giving utterance to the heart-felt joy which fills her bosom upon meeting with her countryman; nor, lastly, in the camp scene, where she so nobly refuses to go back to the trusting bosom of her lord, until he had proved that trust well-founded. We might give more particular citations of natural and striking points in her performance of all these scenes, but we forbear. Certainly, we repeat, in none of these was there aught that looked like failure, so far as her reading and action were concerned; and in this opinion we are confirmed by the concurrent testimony of many of the most distinguished members of the profession, who witnessed the dÉbut.

With great confidence, then, do we predict a brilliant career for this young lady, in the profession she has adopted, if she be only true to herself, and uses aright the talents she possesses. Careful study, observation, experience, and 'careful study,' after all, and with all the rest, will realize the fondest hopes of her friends, and the proudest of her own most ambitious anticipations.

J. F. O.

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Park Theatre.—If an exception to the influence of that mighty incubus which has borne so heavily upon all trades, business, corporations, and professions, were demanded, the Park Theatre, in its undisturbed prosperity, would be selected as the most prominent. Whether from their old love of the drama, or from a desire to divert their thoughts from the misery that surrounded them without, they have sought a refuge in the gay illusions of the mimic scene within, the theatre has, through the entire period of this pecuniary pestilence, met with constant support from a suffering public. And it is well that such has been the case. It is far better that the mind, depressed with care, and racked with continued anxiety, should seek, in such rational recreation as the Theatre affords, a healthy relief, than by shutting out, in gloomy despondency, all amusement or relaxation, make its great grief to grow by what it feeds upon. Varied attractions have, during the past season, followed each other in quick succession. Bright and particular stars have shot their glories across the theatrical horizon, to the wonder of many, and the admiration of all. New plays, of every variety of the drama, have been brought forward, some to receive the stamp of approval, and others of condemnation. DÉbutantes have strutted their hour, some giving promise of growing excellence, and others of quick oblivion. So far, so good. The establishment has been growing rich, and the public have been satisfied with these prominent evidences of its desire to maintain its old renown.

It would be well, if it were in our power, in looking back upon the past season, to find that all things had been done, which justice requires to be done, by an establishment so flourishing as the Park Theatre. But unluckily, there is more left undone, than any excuse which the management can produce can palliate. We can affirm, without fear of contradiction, that there is no theatre in the world, whose immediate support, from the public, can bear comparison with the Park Theatre. No theatre in this country, it is well known, pretends to boast of the immense and constant patronage of the Park. The successive bankruptcies of almost every manager who has attempted to direct the concerns of the principal English theatres, is notorious, and is quite sufficient proof of their want of support from the public; and among the uncounted and uncountable theatres of the gayest and most theatrical nation in the world, those that depend upon their superior attractions for their great names, depend also upon government for their principal support. In Germany, there is the same dependence; and in Italy, the land of song, the very hot-bed of musical genius, opera itself does not find its support in the public alone, but is fostered and encouraged, both by the civil and ecclesiastical authorities. Such being the enviable situation of the Park Theatre, it is no more than reasonable to expect from it a just acknowledgment of its incomparable obligations, in the perfection of every thing belonging to its management and direction. A very brief examination of its present qualifications, will show whether or not this acknowledgment has been, or is likely to be, promptly awarded. There is in the stock company of this theatre, one good comedian, unequalled in America, we know, and unexcelled in any other country, we believe; one comic actress, without a superior, in the characters of the veteran dowagers, venerable and doting nurses, ancient spinsters, and old women generally; one tolerable farceur, who would be a comedian, if he would be content to be natural, and had a sufficient knowledge of the eccentricities of character to be aware that extravagance is not always their prominent trait. One second comedian for old men, country-clowns, talkative, officious servants, such as Pedro, in 'Cinderella;' one 'actress of all work,' especially good in chambermaids, and never bad in any thing which the paucity of talent among the ladies of this company obliges her to undertake; two good light comedians, one of them always sufficient for second characters in tragedy, and the other particularly effective in the heavy villains of opera and melodrama; one interesting and sensible actress for the ladies of comedy, and never at fault as a hoyden, or the spoilt miss of a boarding-school;[12] one third-rate singer among the men; one 'ditto ditto' among the women; one infatuated youth, whose pretty face is regularly disfigured with the paint that goes to make up the faces of 'scape-grace nephews' or interesting 'lovers' in sentimental farces; one good reader, who plays second parts in tragedy; one bad reader, and worse actor, who rolls though Shakspeare and Sheridan with equal effect; one man who does the dukes, and plays the kings, because he is fat; these, with sundry female chorus-singers, who appear constantly as 'walking ladies,' and do occasionally a bit of heavy business in tragedy, and several individual supernumeraries, who are constantly sent on as 'gentlemen,' and being so addressed by the other characters, endeavor, by all sorts of awkward graces, to stultify the audience into the belief that they are so—these, and these alone, constitute the stock-company of the most liberally-supported metropolitan theatre in the world! Ask where is its single tragedian, either male or female; its duplicate comedian; its additional actor or actress, of any character; its capacity, in short, to enact any one tragedy or comedy in all its parts, and 'echo answers where!' And to manage this inefficient company, seek for the 'stage-manager,' and if we are not mistaken, he will be found among the things 'that were, but are not.' There are the materials in this city alone, sufficient to furnish forth a corps dramatique worthy of the Park Theatre. We have shown that the company needs replenishing, and it should be so replenished that every character in the drama might have a fitting representative. As the company at present exists, its best members do double duty; playing both tragedy and comedy, as dire necessity requires; while its subordinates are constantly forced into characters utterly beyond their ability even to comprehend, and to shape them even into an outward resemblance of which, all the efforts of tailors and stage-dressers must prove totally abortive. It is not proper that Mr. John Mason should play both Macbeth and Jeremy Diddler, unless for his own amusement. It is not reasonable, that the same person who officiates as tragedian, should be compelled, after 'doing the terrible' in a five-act tragedy, to assist in executing the comicalities of a broad farce; nor is it more in keeping with the illusion of theatrical displays, that the identical lady who does the 'heavy business' of tragedy, should throw aside her robes of dignity, and immediately thereafter come tripping on in the after-piece, as a coquettish chambermaid. Yet such incongruities have been repeatedly practised, and must of necessity continue to be so, until the management see fit to supply their establishment with a full complement of forces.

There are many other things which need reform. The 'wardrobe wants replenishing.' The orchestra needs both addition and subtraction, as well as the company on the stage. The police are worse than useless; being notorious for creating more disturbance than they ever quell. When all these matters are brought to their just propriety, the Park Theatre will be worthy of the liberal encouragement which the public have shown themselves disposed to exhibit toward it, and not before.

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Since the above was penned, the Park Theatre, after a brief intermission, has reopened, to commence another, and we hope a prosperous season. The interior of the house has been much improved, in the decoration and thorough painting which it has undergone. The new drop-curtain, painted by Mr. Evers, is the most prominent addition to the local ornaments of the house. It represents the well-known picture of the court, as convened for the trial of Queen Catharine, and is well worthy of the high reputation of the artist. The likenesses, according to the original picture, by Harlowe, are generally well preserved. The figure of Mrs. Siddons is perhaps somewhat large and masculine, but the bold, commanding dignity of her look and action is perfectly maintained. The portrait of Charles Kemble is true and familiar, even to those of us who have only seen him when time had somewhat wrinkled his noble front. The face of John Kemble seems to us, in the copy, more full and round, and the features more massive, than in the original. Our own lamented Conway presents a figure on the canvass at the Park, which is hardly justified by Harlowe. His face and person are not as we remember them. They are too muscular and broad in their proportions. Conway, as we knew him, was of a tall figure, but rather delicately than strongly put together. The other personages do not differ materially from the pictured originals, and are certainly far superior, as figures, to any that we have ever before seen from the hand of Mr. Evers. We think, however, that the artist has committed the common fault of crowding his figures too closely. The frame seems too small for so many tall persons, and all of them prominent. If the space within the frame were larger, or the figures smaller, and placed at more reasonable distances, this production would be almost faultless. The draperies are naturally and gracefully drawn; the coloring, perhaps, a little too bright and glaring for the chaste and subdued white and gold in which the interior of the house is dressed. Of the good taste displayed in the coloring and decorations of the pannels of the boxes, and of the whole interior, from pit to gallery, with the splendid dome which crowns the regenerated arena of our 'Old Drury,' too much cannot be said in commendation. A rich propriety characterizes the painting, and ornamental devices, and the whole reflects abundant credit upon the improved taste of Mr. Evers and his assistants.

Mr. Hughes, from the London theatres, has taken the leader's chair in the orchestra; and from the exhibitions which he has already made of his skill, seems destined to fill it worthily. Our space will not allow us to speak of our old favorite, Mrs. Sharpe, who made her first appearance here for some years on the opening evening. She was greeted with a most hearty welcome, and played with all the spirit and vivacity which formerly characterized her efforts in comedy. Mrs. Chippendale also made her courtesy; and her efforts to please, as Isabella, in the 'Wonder,' were well received.

c.

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Pathos.—True pathos is not only one of the most striking but the most durable attributes of real eloquence. It will live in the heart for years, recurring ever and anon to the memory, 'mournful and yet pleasant to the soul.' There is nothing so difficult to feign, as pathos. It is the language of the heart; and while the orator can 'pump up a feeling' of grandeur or sublimity, and wreak it upon expression, and the bard, under the influence of an imaginary afflatus, can excite a reader's pity for fanciful misfortune, yet neither can affect a pathos, which an intelligent auditory or reader will not at once detect. Of the many scenes or events which have aroused this emotion in our bosom, since childhood, there is not one which may not be called up from the dark backward of the past, with the vividness of an occurrence of yesterday.

These thoughts have been awakened, by meeting the following exquisite example of pathos in an ancient common-place book. Simple as it is, we venture to say there is not one under whose eye it will fall, who can read it for the first time, or re-peruse it, without emotion:

"MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

"It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, great changes had come over me. My childish years had passed away; and with them had passed my youthful character. The world was altered too; and as I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheek she so often kissed in her excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her yesterday—as if the blessed sound of her voice was then in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one; but the thought of it, even now, agonizes my heart—and I relate it, that those children who have parents to love them, may learn to value them as they ought.

"My mother had been ill a long time; and I had become so much accustomed to her pale face, and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I had sobbed violently—for they told me she would die; but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me.

"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and done my work wrong-side-outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went into my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual—but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not to have been melted by it.

"She requested me to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of water. I pettishly asked why she did not call the domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?'

"I went and brought her the water; but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling, and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I sat the glass down very quick, and left the room.

"After playing a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my mother 'good night;' but when alone in my room, in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her faint voice trembled, when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could not sleep; and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just sunk into an uneasy slumber; and they told me I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what troubled me; but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct.

"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's room.

"She was dead! She never spoke to me more—never smiled upon me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought then I wished I could die, and be buried with her; and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will 'bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.'"

Near this beautiful fragment, in the time-honored receptacle of literary 'things lost upon earth' to which we have alluded, we find a kindred specimen, in the affecting 'Lines written by an East-India Officer on his Return from India.' They are as old as the hills, and as lasting; and we still sympathize as deeply and sincerely with the

as when we first read of his desolation of heart, we know not how many years ago. There is a melting tenderness in his musings, amid the sights and sounds now strange to his eye and ear, and among the graves of the friends of his youth, who have long since been 'followed to the house of mourning, and forgotten in the dust,' which is to us irresistibly touching. We feel the holy sadness of his blighted affection, when he wakes from dreams of departed years, and the loved ones who blessed his childhood—dreams which come to him in a sleep finally won to his bed in the late and troubled night-watches—and in alternate joy and bitterness of soul, exclaims:

We shall never forget a scene in which deep pathos was a principal characteristic, which we once beheld, at a country church, in one of the thinly-populated, humble towns of western New-York. A pious clergyman, of the Baptist denomination, whose 'three-score years and ten' had turned his hair to snow, and given to his limbs the tremulousness of age, was to preach his farewell discourse to his little congregation, over whom he had presided for nearly half a century. The place itself, and the time, were accessaries to the 'abiding effect' which was left upon the minds of all who were present. It was the afternoon of a mild October day, and the sere leaves of the trees which shaded the church were falling in slow eddies by the open windows. After recapitulating his long labors among them—his teachings 'publicly, and from house to house'—his attendance upon the marriage festivals of those whom he had afterward consigned to the grave with bitter tears—the christenings and funerals he had celebrated—after these affectionate reminiscences, which touched an answering chord in the bosom of every hearer—he adverted to that day wherein all the actors in the drama of life must enter at the last scene, to complete and make up the sublime catastrophe, and warned them to prepare for its momentous solemnities. 'For myself,' said he, 'I can say—standing upon a narrow point between two eternities, and looking back upon a world imperfect and fading, and upon friends dear indeed, but more fleeting still—that I account myself as nothing, until I was my Saviour's, and enrolled in the register of Christ.' And raising his trembling, attenuated hands to heaven, his dim eyes streaming with tears—for, though he had struggled against emotion, his feelings now overcame him—he repeated these lines, in the most melting cadence:

The look which followed these touching stanzas—the subdued emotion, the pious hope, which beamed in the countenance of the venerable father—will never fade from the memory of those who heard him. The heart of the speaker was poured forth; he was embodied Pathos.

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New-York Mercantile Library Association.—We hear, with sincere pleasure, of the continued success and improvement of this widely-useful institution. A large increase of its already extended list of members; additions of new and valuable books; accessions of magazines, and the higher order of periodicals; and ample preparations for a series of lectures from some of the best minds of the country, are some of the more prominent indications of the 'high and palmy state' to which we have alluded. Let but party disaffections be religiously avoided—let the members but strengthen each other's hands in the advancement of the great interests of the association—and the institution, for whose original foundation we are mainly indebted to the benevolent efforts of William Wood, Esq., of Canandaigua, will become one of which both our city and state may be justly proud.

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Laplace.—We have received a small and handsomely-printed pamphlet, containing 'An Historical Eulogy of M. Le Marquis De Laplace, pronounced in the Public Session of the Royal Academy of Sciences, at Paris, June 15, 1829. By M. Le Baron Fourier, Perpetual Secretary.' Translated from the French, by R. W. Haskins, Esq., of Buffalo. We regard this as an excellent and compendious history of one of the most eminent scientific men France has ever produced. It is the tribute of a mind capable of appreciating the labors of one 'who enlarged the domain of thought, and taught man the dignity of his being, by unveiling to his view all the majesty of the heavens,' and whose name the world will not 'willingly let die.' A clear and forcible style assures us that the original has lost little in the hands of the translator.

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? The reply of Samuel Kirkham, Esq., to the extract from Mr. Goold Brown's 'Grammar of English Grammars,' will appear in the October number. Having 'redeemed the time,' it may not be amiss to state, 'in this connection,' that the Knickerbocker, will hereafter be issued with punctuality on the first of every month.