AFTER THE BALL

THE last waltz is over, the last guest has fled,
The last tender whisper at parting been said;
The echoes of music have died on the night,
And the morning-tide comes with its rosiest light.
The queen of the ballroom has flown to her nest;
The sweet eyes are closed; and one hand on her breast
Lies light like a lily; her bright hair out-streams
On the lace of the pillow; say, what are her dreams?

Her dreams are of triumphs-the power of her glance-
Again she whirls on in the rapturous dance;
The lashes sweep down o'er the exquisite eyes,
As she murmurs the sweetest of low-toned replies.
Her face flushes warm, and the perfect lips seem
To woo to the kisses that come in the dream.
But even in dreams she is pitiless now,
And her heart is as cold as the gems on her brow.

Love tenderly whispers, but whispers in vain ;
Her thoughts are of triumph; she'll conquer again.
And men will be won by her hair's glancing gold,
Though her sway is as baleful as Circe's of old.
Ah, lady, bethink thee, when years have flown by,

And colours of sunset are red in life's sky,

You may wish for one heart that you now hold in thrall; So let Eros be counsellor-after the ball.

H. SAVILE CLARKE.

THIRD SERIES, VOL. V. F.S. VOL. XXV.

N

MR. IRVING IN HAMLET'

Ir is many a year since any event connected with the stage has called to itself so much of the general attention as the appearance of Mr. Irving, for the first time in London, as Hamlet. For the few days immediately preceding the event it was as inevitable a topic of all casual gatherings, in drawing-room, club, or railway carriage, as the weather, and for a time shared the honours of public interest with the winner of the last race or the favourite of the next. Since the great ordeal of the first night the performance itself has furnished the material of many a debate between the advocates of the old and new school among judges and adepts; has been the fruitful theme of the professed criticism of the press throughout the length and breadth of the land; and among grave and gay, the serious and the mundane, the busy and the idle, has begotten a common consent of thought and speech, such as it would have been hard to credit as the probable result of any incident of theatrical history in these days, when a general indifference seemed to have united the old hostile factions of stage haters and stage enthusiasts. But for Mr. Gladstone's polemical pamphlet on the Vatican decrees, Mr. Irving's Hamlet would have been the sole and all-engrossing topic of the month just elapsed. If for no other reason, therefore, the subject claims some attention in these pages.

There are several reasons for this unusual prominence assumed by an event that might seem calculated, at first sight, to inspire but a limited amount of interest or curiosity, and that only in the special sphere of its occurrence-the world of plays and playgoing. One of these, and an important one, applies to the inhabitants of London exclusively, though in such a matter the exclusiveness is rather nominal than real. Mr. Irving claims from us Londoners an especial favour and patronage, inasmuch as he has clomb the ladder, whereof we see him now at the top-every roundel of it-beneath our very eyes, and accompanied at each upward step by our applause and encouragement. We have seen his 'prentice hand grow in cunning, become more dexterous and supple at every fresh effort, until year by year its deftness waxed to mastership, and the long and arduous travel of art, swallowing up lustrums of our short life ere it bring us any way on the journey, had brought him to the very gates of the temple that crowns the hill of fame. London has been his art cradle, and we have been sponsors for the babe. Now that he has felt himself equal to the responsibility of Hamlet, it has been like the assumption of the virile toga, or, not to speak it pro

fanely, a confirmation of his vicarious vows, and therefore an occasion of, as it were, high-day celebration. Dramatically speaking, Mr. Irving has come of age, and we have been and are feasting his artistic majority.

Hamlet has, moreover, a hold over all educated minds in the country; it soars above all prejudices and persuasions, creeds and classes; it is a religion in itself, and one of universal acceptance. It is a monument that commemorates the unity of our common nature, and on it might be inscribed the words of him that raised it, and which it so energetically illustrates-One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.' The advent of a new representative of a character which has come to be regarded as a sort of epitome of humanity is like something that affects the realm, and the news of it is promulgated where for the most part theatres are but dimly recognised, and an actor is a thing of naught.' The boundaries of what is called the theatrical world are for a time indefinitely enlarged; eyes are directed towards the enactments of the stage and ears open to its utterances that were before blind as bats to its most dazzling spectacles, deaf as adders to its most charmed discourse. When an actor, therefore, who had made himself already a name of valid currency in the popular ear, now stamped his repute, as it were, with the imperial image of Hamlet the Dane, what wonder that it should circulate so widely as has been noted! But to pursue the image, come we to the assay of the coin. How much of true gold, how much of baser alloy, in the test of performance? This determination it will be both modest and prudent to leave to the sure and only recognised analysis of the great mint-master Time. The process of trial is going on in the fiery furnace of public opinion, which infallibly brings forth the sterling metal, and consumes the base to worthless dross. In what is set down here let the reader only see a contribution towards the ultimate result, an individual impression candidly given, and which peradventure may reflect the impressions of a multitude, of a few, or of one alone. It is not a verdict; simply evidence.

It will be readily conceded that the only proper frame of mind in which to become witnesses of such an essay should be one of the most absolute candour. We should divest ourselves of all previous impressions and recollections, which nowadays can be only faint and shadowy revivals of a distant past, and at the best but unsafe guides as standards of comparison. We should make a clear slate, wipe away old scores, and commence a fresh reckoning. There are persons who talk exaltedly of the traditions of the character of Hamlet; but what have we to do with traditions in any real sense of the word ? Are they not cut off from us by the gulf of time since the last of the great actors of the past trod the boards in the guise of the Danish prince? And Macready himself made but small account of any