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. TH 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 winged story : Songs that are sung betoken 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. All the lady acquaintances of Gideon whom he had ever known had been either Americans-which Mrs. Skull certainly was not—or else in America; and there was no place or set of circumstances in the American part of his memory with which he could associate her. And then, they had seldom, if ever, been ladies except by an extravagantly courteous stretch of conventional terms; while she, he was sure, was a lady bred and born-at any rate in the conventional sense, if not in any more satisfactory one. At first sight, she was not the kind of young woman whom he would expect to disprove her ladyhood by catching a man like Gideon for the sake of a fortune. Of course, it might be for love; but then, men cannot be expected to see one another with women's eyes, and never can be made to quite understand how any men but themselves can make women fall in love with them. They are bound to accept facts, of course; but scarcely even these when the love-winner is so unlike themselves as Gideon Skull was unlike Walter Gray. She interested him at once, for all these reasons, but even more because she looked like one of those women who have a story-not merely told about them by others, like half the women in the room, but written on her lips and in her eyes. To pique curiosity by looking interesting is the great secret which some very plain women have learned who have ruled the world. Mrs. Skull was very far from plain. But the story which her eyes and her lips expressed to the sight without speaking to the mind, like a poem in an unknown tongue, already half explained to Walter Gray the fascination she had no doubt exercised over Gideon, though nothing, apart from wealth, could interpret his attraction for her. His introduction to her did not interrupt any conversation, for she was sitting as much alone at the end of the piano as he had been at the door. He noticed that she did not give him the usual smile of greeting. She only bowed rather coldly, and waited, with a discouraging air of indifference, for him to say anything he pleased. Perhaps she had nothing to say. It is often the way with people whose eyes seem to say a great deal-which so constantly turns out to be a vast quantity of nothing. "I had the-hm!-pleasure of knowing Mr. Skull a long time ago," he said, "though very likely he wouldn't remember even my Will he be here to-night?" name. "No," she said. "I think not, at least. He hardly ever goes out, and is very busy." Her voice, with its quiet indifference of tone, did not help his memory. It only satisfied him that she was very thoroughly an Englishwoman; and made him guess-though he certainly could not have told how or why-that she was as indifferent to her husband's comings and goings as she was to being questioned about them by a stranger. Clearly, Walter Gray had something of a woman's way of seeing a great deal in a very little. "I see they are going to waltz. Will you "I don't dance." "Then, in that case, nor do I." "I wonder," he began to think, "how she really did manage to catch Gideon. It's true he never danced either; but, all the same, she's no more in his line than if he waltzed like an Austrian. Do you know, Mrs. Skull, I have got a fancy that troubles me; and I can neither waltz nor rest in any other way till I've told it to you." These receptions of Mrs. Aristides-as her husband's assemblies of his clientèle were technically called-generally ended with a sudden happy thought on the part of somebody to extemporise a ball. But it never had to depend upon the piano for inspiration. Impromptu as it always was, there never failed to be a certain number of distinguished musicians present, and the various collections of Mr. Aristides contained one of instruments ready to their hands, with which they were never too proud to add to the pleasure of such good company. For from Mr. Aristides even pipers and fiddlers got-or thought they got-rather more than they gave. But a reputation for impromptu dances, with real musicians with real names to play the tunes, was well worth the few guineas for concert tickets which it cost their host in the year. Just then a bright and lively waltz started out in splendid form from what might almost be called an orchestra, which made up for its smallness by spirit and style. Mrs. Skull must be free from the dancing fever indeed not to break through her rule. "Yes, Gideon would be just the man to object to his wife's waltzing with anybody but himself," thought Walter Gray. He waited for her to ask him about his fancy; but, as she seemed as indifferent to it as to dancing, he was obliged to take her question as made. "I can't get it out of my head, Mrs. Skull, that I have met you before." "Indeed? I don't think that likely. I know very few of Mr. Skull's friends." "Yes," he thought, "just the man to object to his wife knowing his friends. A reformed rake always makes the most jealous husband. I wonder why he lets her come to this place alone—or at all; old Dale wasn't a rake, and even he keeps Laura at home when he goes out for fun." "But, all the same," he went on, "I feel I have seen you |