The only way in which I could control his tricks was by showing him to the panther on board, which excited his fears very strongly.  I used to hold him up by his tail, and the instant he saw the panther he would become perfectly stiff, shut his eyes, and pretend to be dead.  When I moved away, he would relax his limbs, and open one eye very cautiously; but if he caught a glimpse of the panther’s cage, the eyes were quickly closed, and he resumed the rigidity of death.  After four months’ sojourn together, I quitted Jack off the Scilly Islands, and understood that I was very much regretted:  he unceasingly watched for me in the morning, and searched for me in every direction, even venturing into the cabin; nor was he reconciled to my departure when my servants left the vessel at Gravesend.—­Mag.  Natural History.

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NOTES OF A READER.

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COMPANION TO THE THEATRES.

It must be owned that such a little book as this has long been wanted; for of all writing, that relating to the stage is the most diffuse.  It is scattered about in biography, criticism and anecdote, not unfrequently of great interest, but occupying so much “valuable” time, that to condense it, or to pick the wheat from the chaff, is no trifling task.  So much for the amusement which our “Companion” may yield to the Londoner:  his utility as a cicerone or guide will be more obvious to our country friends, who flock in thousands to see and hear comedy and tragedy at this play-going season.  A young girl comes to town to see “the lions,” and, with her “cousin,” goes to the opera, where one guinea is paid for their admission, or even more if they be installed.  Two Londoners would buy their tickets during the day, and thus pay but 17_s_.  Another party are dying to hear Braham sing, or Paton warble her nightingale notes among the canvass groves and hollyhock gardens of Drury Lane and Covent Garden; or to sup on the frowning woes of tragedy, the intrigues of an interlude dished up as an entremet, or a melodrama for a ragout; or the wit and waggery of a farce, sweet and soft-flowing like a petit-verre, to finish the repast.  They go, and between the acts try to count the wax and gas, the feet, and foot lights till they are purblind; they return home and dream of Desdemona, sing themselves to sleep with the notes of the last song, are haunted with the odd physiognomy of Liston, and repeat the farce-laugh till the dream is broken.  Next day it is mighty pleasant to read how many hundred people the theatre will hold, how many pounds they all paid to get there; and how the splendid pile of Drury Lane rose on the area of a cockpit:  and how Garrick played Macbeth in a court suit, and John Kemble enacted the sufferings of Hamlet in powdered hair.  Upon all these subjects the Companion is conversant, although he does not set up for Sir Oracle, or shake his head like Burleigh.  In short, he tells of “many things,” from the cart of Thespis and the Roman theatres, with their 6,000 singers and dancers, to the companies on the present stages.