which may have gradually acquired the power of living in salt water and remained in the main ocean, while others have reached or remained in the waters of higher levels, and thus continued, as of old, fresh-water creatures. And this medusa may be one of these aborigines, that still retains some power of endurance of high temperatures, but is utterly untrained to salinity. Thus a little translucent complication of immeasurably thin films, distended with a few drops of the lily-tank water, stirs up deep problems of the genesis of worlds. IT T will be satisfactory to those who take an interest in the English stage to know that our performances of Shakespeare commend themselves strongly to the more competent judges among our foreign visitors. M. Sarcey, whose critical reputation is European, told me that he attended the representation of "As You Like It" at Drury Lane, and witnessed three impersonations of signal value, viz., the Rosalind of Miss Litton, Mr. Kyrle Bellew's Orlando, and Mr. Lionel Brough's Touchstone. Mdlle. Bernhardt meantime was prodigal in her eulogies of Mr. Irving's Shylock, which she pronounced an absolutely unsurpassable performance. English art needs, of course, no French hall-mark. At a time, however, when foreign art has enjoyed something like a monopoly of our stage, when the reception accorded to artists of all countries has been enthusiastic, and when there has been a species of international rivalry for English approval and English gold, it is pleasant to find a recognition which may be accepted as adequate extended to our performers. After all, England is not so dependent upon foreigners for its art as it is for its breadstuffs, and the hospitality she extends is in this case at least disinterested. While, moreover, we have much to learn from the visitors to our shores, we have something also to teach. In one respect at least the English actor stands apart from, and in front of, his French rival. He finds sufficient for his wants his professional earnings, and he does not carry for payment his talents into society. It is, to English ideas, wholly unworthy in a sociétaire of the Comédie Française, whose position is that of a government official, to take hire for private performances. More than one member of the Comédie Française has played in London under such conditions during the present season. FAR AR from discouraged with their reception are those Dutch comedians whose performances are, as I have already hinted, among the most remarkable that have during recent years been witnessed in London. Before the departure of the company, and indeed before that morning entertainment at Drury Lane which brought the representations to a brilliant termination, Mr. Le Gras, the chief director, explained to me his view of the situation. "We are,” said he, “ a company of actors in a small town of a small State. Few foreigners come to see us, and our own people are so familiar with us that they are scarcely able to judge of our merits or defects. Not quite sure were we before our journey whether we were asleep or awake. Our trip to London was a species of holiday which we expected would cost us some money. It has cost us more than we expected. So cordial has been, however, the reception of your press and your artists, that we return home with an amount of encouragement and confidence worth all the money that has been expended." That these views were not too sanguine the event has proved, since fêtes and rejoicings have greeted the artists upon their reappearance in the "Land of Dykes." If they could not be said, in the words of that quotation of which Thackeray in "Esmond" makes so noble use, to return "bearing their sheaves with them," they at least bear their "blushing honours thick upon" them. Ο NE more reference to theatrical matters may be permitted at the close of a season which, so far as regards histrionic art, has been prodigal alike of instruction, of novelty, and of delight. An attempt has been made at Sadler's Wells to render comprehensible to the spectator the fairy action of the "Midsummer Night's Dream," by the employment of children to personate the fairies. A discussion of the advantages or disadvantages of this plan is unfitted to these pages. It seems worth while, however, to point out that the attempt to realise the unrealisable always results in failure and bathos. Puck describes how, as a result of the quarrel between Oberon and Titania, All their elves for fear Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there. To convey by means of children an idea of beings thus diminutive is, of course, impossible. No spectator who is blessed with enough imagination to understand and love the play experiences any difficulty in accepting full-grown representatives of fairies. May we not, indeed, suppose that the ethereal substance of the fairies enables them to increase or diminish their stature at will, after the fashion of the devils in "Paradise Lost," whom Milton likens to them? Readers of "Paradise Lost" are familiar with that fine passage at the close of the first book, in which the transformation is described : The aery crowd Swarm'd and were straitened, till, the signal given, In bigness to surpass earth's giant sons, Or dreams he sees, while over-head the moon That fairies can, according to Shakespeare, change their statures seems implied. Titania, were her size no greater than that of the elves Puck describes, could scarcely "wind in her arms" the translated Bottom, or even "stick musk roses in his sleek, smooth head,” since a rose would be almost too heavy a burden for her to lift. Puck, moreover, is able to take on himself the "likeness of a filly foal," a not too unsubstantial being, and to personate "a hound, a hog, a headless bear," and other creatures much larger than himself. I hope, then, it is not too prosaic to suggest, in order to do away with children on the stage, that the fairies in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" abandon, for a time at least, the diminutive shapes they are wont to assume. Oberon, indeed, speaks of himself and Titania as rocking the ground whereon they walk, an idea altogether irreconcilable with the ordinary attributes of fairies. HE loss experienced by Professor Mommsen in the destruction by fire of his library and his manuscripts extends so far beyond the limits of what Macduff calls A fee-griet Due to some single breast, that I may almost, continuing the quotation, give Rosse's reply, and say, with the alteration of a single pronoun No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to him alone. It is to be hoped that the Professor may, like his great predecessor, Niebuhr, who was the victim of a similar calamity, have life and strength to gather together once more the materials thus scattered and destroyed. Under any conditions, the world must be the poorer by the loss of so much of the time of one of its most conscientious historians as is occupied in recovering lost ground. In this respect, rather than in the destruction of books, or even of public manuscripts, is, I am disposed to think, the accident most to be deplored. In this respect, too, it is analogous to the destruction by fire of the famous picture of Titian, Frederick Barbarossa at the feet of Alexander III., or that of the even more celebrated and altogether matchless work of the same artist, the Saint Peter Martyr, of which Algarotti said that the chief masters agreed that it was impossible to find in it a fault. This painting, which under pain of death it was forbidden to remove from Venice, perished a few years ago in a conflagration. One lesson, at least, may be learned from this misfortune. In the case of manuscripts, a writer, whatever his rank, should only be allowed access to them under such conditions as ensure their safety. Not even in the case of a man so distinguished as the historian of Rome should manuscripts which are practically unique, and not to be replaced, be allowed to face the risks incidental to a private house. Meantime, it may be hoped that some at least of the printed volumes have escaped destruction. Books are among the most difficult things in the world to burn, as any one may ascertain who puts a thickish volume on the fire. There may, then, be in the library rare volumes which, though seriously impaired in value, may be still available for reference, or even capable of being reprinted. I WILL only refer to the death of Tom Taylor so far as to say that it is a curious coincidence it should have followed so closely upon that of Planché, the two writers having been almost equally prolific, and their work, jointly considered, constituting the most familiar and successful dramatic outcome of a period extending over more than sixty years. It is not likely that the whole, or any large portion, of Taylor's plays will be collected, as many of them are adaptations, and others have no special claim to rank as literature. Two or three companion volumes to the series of Historical Plays published by Messrs. Chatto & Windus would, however, not only be a becoming tribute to an able writer, but a boon to the dramatic student. In some qualities not too well understood in England, Taylor had few, if any, rivals among living English dramatists. Companion volumes to that to which I refer were, if I remember rightly, promised, and a period immediately following the death of the author is in all respects opportune for their appearance. SYLVANUS URBAN. THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. SEPTEMBER 1880. QUEEN COPHETUA. BY R. E. FRANCILLON. A CHAPTER XXIII. A higher alt, a deeper bass, Are not the moments flying? Shall we not feel them sweet? This is our wingèd story : Silence for hearts that beat. NYBODY who had ever known Gideon would feel a little curious about the woman who, without a penny (if gossip were true), had reduced him to marriage in any shape or form. Oddly enough, it almost seemed to Mr. Walter Gray as if he had met her before somewhere, somewhen or other. It was not unlikely; having known the husband, it was natural enough that he should have come across one with whom Gideon must have been acquainted for some longer or shorter time before marrying her. The more he looked, the more sure he felt in one way, and the more doubtful in others. |