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our own; the wisdom of all is made manifest to each; by this we may, as it were, listen to the glowing language of the great dead; we may hear their voices from the past, as though they yet breathed beside us; and by this, oh, glorious and entrancing thought! by this we address the future-by this we may speak with the unborn!

but when they are known, then may we turn to the writer before us for sympathy, since she too has suffered; for counsel, since she has arrived at a rock-founded eminence to which she would lead us. Everything, however, that we could say has been so much better said by Mazzini in his glorious Introduction to this translation of

We take leave of "Evelyn Stuart," heartily the "Letters of a Traveller," that we will borwishing to meet the author again. row from his pages instead of offering further comment of our own, remarking only that Miss Ashurst's translation is in every way admirable, infusing the very spirit of the original into our own rich language:—

LETTERS OF A TRAVELLER. By George Sand. Translated by Eliza A. Ashurst. Edited by Matilda M. Hays. (Churton.)-Only a few months since we made some passing comments on a work, the able translation of which has lately reached us. But without reference to our pages, every reader of the current literature or noticer even of the reviews of the day, must be cognizant of the series of translations undertaken by Miss Hays about a twelvemonth ago. The abrupt conclusion of the undertaking, for want of adequate support, is certainly to be placed by the thoughtful among the many curious phenomena of the year just passing away. There is one point, however, which we consider quite incontrovertible: had the works of George Sand, thus presented in an English dress, been of the polluted class, which the "prejudice which condemns without a hearing" imagines them, alas! the enterprise would not have been relinquished for want of adequate support." Works that pander to a morbid and depraved taste have no lack of temporary popularity or a ready sale, whatever their ultimate sentence may be-witness those productions, the names of which will rise uncalled to the minds of all whose opinions are worth propitiating. For ourselves, we confess that our acquaintance with not a few of the works of that

..

"Large brained woman and large hearted man, Self-called George Sand!"

has been a mental epoch; and we could have wished that that very large class, to whom the French language is not as familiar as their own, might have had increased opportunities of communion with her great spirit. We willingly confess we should not be eager to place her grandest works in the hands of youthful readers, or-for the number of years one has lived has nothing to do with youth or age-of those breathing automata called by courtesy men and women, whose souls, crushed into torpor by circumstance and education, are content with the purposeless animal life of habitual selfishness. The last, blind as moles, cannot distinguish the light of truth when it pierces the world's murky atmosphere; and for the young, the young in years and heart, to whom Truth, that will one day shine out, is as yet clouded, and whose souls have not been revealed to them by the flame of Suffering-even as a torch, cast into an abyss, betrays its depths and its secrets-they, eager as they might be to learn, would fail to do so, for such discourses are of things in which they are not initiated. The lessons of Life are to be learned only individually and by experience;

Let those who have never suffered from the grievances of the present day, to whom life as it is-without a heaven, without love, with no common faithappears yet desirable and normal, and who, shadows among shadows, demand from this existence merely a course of agreeable sensations-from art, the pastime of an hour-from philosophy, a mere aimless gymnastic exercise for the intellectual faculties-from religion, only brick and mortar chapels, empty

formulas, and individual hopes-leave this book unread. It is not meant for them. Doubtless they would find in it matter for admiration, landscapes traced by the hand of a master, fascinating brilliancy of style, pages often equal, sometimes superior to the best pages of Rousseau's Réveries; but the essence, the soul of the book, the only part to which the author would attach importance, will utterly escape them. Those only who have early learned to think with Schiller, that "Life is real, life is earnest,” * and who neither shrink from, nor repulse any of its life has only been bestowed upon us that we may inconsequences, can seize its import. They know that carnate in ourselves the ideal of which the prophecy has been implanted in our hearts by God, and that if God has not placed us as isolated beings in this world, it is to teach us self-devotion, that we may consecrate the results of this painful conquest to something beyond our own individuality. They know that the secret of this world is progress, laborious and incessant progress of the soul, and of all souls, through and for each other, towards eternal truththat life is one of God's thoughts, realizing itself in time and space-that the physical universe is a grand symbol, a living form of this thought, of which each epoch unfolds a fresh development; man, an intelliinvestigate the form, in order to approximate towards gence, a volition called to interpret the symbol, to the divine idea-that labour is consequently the law of our existence; repose, its desertion and suicide. **** The principal characteristic of this period of transition, which has swallowed up one generation, and in which we are still dragging our weary way, whilst it is gnawing into the heart of the youth of the present time, is not, whatever may have been said, the want of poetry; there is too much sorrow, too much of presentiment in the world for this to be true. Neither is it the want of individual courage. Never, perhaps, since many centuries, has martyrdom been braved with more stoicism in Europe. Neither is it the power of high thought which is wanting: the last fifty years have seen historical intelligence, the closest analysis of social phenomena, scientific observation and philosophical intuition, attain a degree of power which few of our ancestors could even have conceived. The cause of the evils of to-day, so fatal to our youth, is, on one side, a foolish pride of indi

*Ernst ist das Leben."

Literature.

viduality; on the other, the want of persistant energy of will. There is in us, children of the nineteenth century, something of the Titan and of Hamlet. We commence by believing exclusively in ourselves, we end by believing in nothing. And both these phases of the soul, through which so many of us have passed, arise from one and the same cause-the want of a sacred and common faith. Life, thus disinherited, escapes from its straightforward path, and in its irregular course, now soars to heaven, now plunges into the lowest depths, instead of expanding, calm and strong, through weal or woe. The Titan falls, overcome by the law of things; Hamlet sinks under the weight of an idea-the Believer alone remains standing, like an old oak beaten by the tempests. Sadly and silently does he accomplish his daily labour without cowardly discouragement; he knows that the flower of his soul, hope, can only bloom beyond the cradle of transformation, in this world called the grave.

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so low, he will go through the world, useless to others, a burthen to himself, pursuing the idea without its application, like Faust; or the phantom of suicide across the Glaciers, like Manfred. Alus! how many souls, dear to our heart, have we not seen come to this point? How many young men, perhaps even amongst those to whom these "Letters of a Traveller" allude, under fictitious names (and if this be true, it must be one of George Sand's bitterest griefs)-how many young men have we not saluted at the commencement of their career, glowing with enthusiasm and the poetry of great enterprises, whom we see to-day, dragging themselves along, precocious old men, with the wrinkles of cold calculation on their brow, calling themselves free from illusion, when they are only disheartened, and practical, when they are only common-p'ace!

The heaven is gloomy, the earth encumbered with ruins, and from their depths rise long and mournful wailings, which express the sufferings of the millions of human beings who are swarming amongst these ruins. Proud and eager, the young man darts forward on his route, his pure heart throbbing with emotion, his brow frowning from the inner working of the thoughts of emancipation, peculiar to the age which has sent him forth; he inhales, even unconsciously to himself, through every pore of his strong and manly breast, the freshening breath of the last hour of night. What obstacles can stop his course? Danger is inviting at his age; the joys of triumph and glory, which every man at the outset of his career, dreams of as so easily won, are his goal: suffering itself has charms for youth. He goes onward, and still onward, through impulse, not by the energy of a reflective will; spurred on by hope, not by a sentiment of duty imposed by faith; because he believes in himself, not in God, and his holy law of labour: still he goes on his way, espousing the cause of the oppressed, revolting against injustice: he protests, if not in the name of Truth, in the name of his own dignity, against the phantoms, the gigantic lies which encumber his route. Later, his energy relaxes, his step hesitates, he had dreamed of danger, but of a brilliant danger, and a deadly struggle: he has found inertia, that passive resistance which exhausteth but killeth not; the mocking smiles of the sceptic, the indifference of the unintelligent many, where he had expected to meet the savage cry of hatred, or noisy enthusiasm. He had strength enough for the martyrdom of the body, not for the martyrdom of the soul-barren disappointment. Friendships, which he fondly believed immortal, have vanished like a morning dream. Love ought to have wreathed him a crown of roses, but the roses are withered by the icy breath of society-they have perished under the tempest of human chances; the thorns alone remain. Glory flies before his pursuit. If he soars high, he is solitary; if he clings to the earth he had so wished to purify and transform, he is stained by its impurities, and torn by its brambles. He has no faith to guide his steps-the men around have no faith. His imprudent mother has murmured in his ear, with a kiss, "Be happy!" His father has said to him, "Be rich!" Rich and happy! Why should he not be so? Why should he be self-devoted to unhappiness for a world incapable of appreciating or understanding his sacrifice! This is the commencement of his temptation: if he yield to it, he becomes either a misanthrope or an egotist-Timon or Don Juan; or if his endowments prevent his sinking |

And how many amongst them might not have been saved, if, instead of saying to them, "Be happy," their mothers had said to them with the first development of their intelligence, "Be good and pure!" If, instead of saying to them "Be rich," their fathers had repeated unceasingly to them, "Be strong; know how to suffer! There is no treasure worth a tranquil conscience! How many of these souls, good in themselves, but feeble because they had no other support than their own individuality, would have escaped the atheism of despair, if, at the acme of the crisis, a friendly hand had touched their brow, and a faithful voice murmured in their ear"Be faithful to the dream of your youth; it is the reflection of a distant ideal; but which, from the very fact of its being implanted in each and all of us, must be realized sooner or later. Keep hope alive in your soul; it is the bud of the flower. Believe in friendship, worship love; but forget not that neither friendship nor love is happiness; they are but its promise: they are two wings, bestowed by God upon your soul, not to stagnate in mere enjoyment, but to raise yourselves to a nobler elevation. Of what do you complain? For what cause, and against whom do you raise the cry of revolt? Had you then formed so false an estimate of life as to imagine that the reward of your labour would be met with in this existence? Does not the whole universe declare to you that this life is but a passage from one element to another? Is not aspiration the normal state of your soul? There is neither happiness nor repose upon this earth. What you call repose is egotism the death of the soul; and what you dream of, under the name of happiness, would be the cessation of all aspiration; that is to say, a cessation of all which constitutes the essence of a human being; all which has its beginning, perhaps only continues its development here, has its end elsewhere. In this lower world there is, for us, only consolation; there is but hope. Is it the world's fault if you require from it more than it can give you? Is it God's fault if he has not accorded to you the power of reaching the haven before the voyage is finished? You are yet in the midst of the ocean: struggle on bravelythe hand on the oar, and the eye raised to heaven. The very billow which affrights you will forward you on your way; and you are strong enough to conquer it, as you would a fiery courser: but let your arm drop, your energy relax for a moment, and you are thrust back to the point from which you departed, or swallowed up in the depths. Cast behind you, then, these phantoms of glory and enjoyment, fleeting clouds over your soul's heaven, illuminated by the sun's rays one second, dark and gloomy the moment after. There is but one reality in our human life-duty, mournful, but sacred as the stars, as

all lovely things. Make a pact with duty: God, in his goodness, will double your strength, and give you love for your consolation. I, too, have suffered-I, also, have found life bitter. I have passed through all your storms; my heart has also been torn by al your deceptions. But God, my faith in duty and love, have saved me. Men have seemed also to me degraded, wicked; but was not this an added reason to endeavour, at all risks, to make them better? Often have I taken the phantom of love for love itself; but ought I, for that, to desert its reality, and smother its divine instinct within my heart? When I found myself ready to fail, to sink under isolation and suffering, I thought of other sufferings-of the child of the people martyred by misery, and deprived of the life of the soul-of Genius misunderstood-of nations enslaved of those who have died for them with a smile upon their lips-of Jesus on the cross, and his words of forgiveness; and I went on my way again. My check is pale and worn, my heart is dead to pleasure; but I am calm: faith in the future and in God-this is enough for the few days yet remaining

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to us.

talent may be, he has a great sacrifice to make, and a great humiliation to suffer in his own estimation. He sees others working slowly, with reflection, with love; he sees them read and re-read their pages, correct them, polish them minutely, scatter precious gems over them through after-thought, take off the least grain of dust, and then lay them aside in order to see them again, and to surpass even perfection! As for himself, unfortunate as he is, he has made, with blow of spade and trowel, a rough work, un. formed, energetic sometimes, but always incomplete, hurried, and feverish, the ink not being dry upon the manuscript before it must be given up, the faults not even corrected! . . . . These little miseries make you smile, and seem puerile to you. Nevertheless, if you admit that even in great things man's chief moving power is self-love, you must also own that in the smallest things a man must suffer in entire abnegation of this self-love. And then there is something noble, something holy in that devotion of an artist to his art, which consists in doing well, in perfecting at the price of his fortune, of his glory, of his life. Faith is always a virtue, fortitude your favourite Well, then, it is thus Madame Sand speaks, word, I believe. The artizan prosecutes his work to through these "Lettres d'un Voyageur," to our augment his profits; the artist languishes two years whole contemporary generation-so eager in under-in his garret, over a work which would make his fortaking the struggle against egotism and social false-tune, but which he will not yield whilst it is not hood, and so easily discouraged at the first defeat. completed after his own heart and conscience.

THE DRAWING-ROOM TABLE-BOOK. Edited by Mrs. S. C. Hall. (Virtue.)-There is a peculiarity about this Annual-which has

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Embarked on a fatal destiny, having neither cupidity nor extravagant wants, but a prey to unfore-reached us too late for other than a brief and seen reverses-charged with the care of precious hurried notice-to which we would fain draw beings, of whom I was the only support, I have not our readers' attention, as it is an earnest of the been an artist, although I have had all the fatigues, solid worth of the work. The whole of its prose all the ardour, all the zeal, and all the sufferings at- contents, consisting of eight tales and sketches, tached to that sacred profession. True glory has not is from the pen of the gifted Editress, aye, and crowned my labours, because I so rarely have been in her happiest styles too. To our mind she has able to follow my inspiration. Hurried, obliged to seldom surpassed the truth and pathos to be gain money, I have forced my imagination to pro- found in "The Old Man's Wife," and in duce, without always waiting for the concurrence of "Mother and Daughter;" and "The Wishing my reason. When my muse yielded not of her own free will, I have constrained her; and she has reWell" is a capital Irish Sketch. Mr. Lovell venged herself by cold caresses, and gloomy revela- contributes a petite comedie, in two dramatic tions. Instead of coming towards me, crowned and scenes, full of what some one calls elegant smiling, she has come pale, embittered, and indig- fun;" and graceful poems by Mrs. Abdy, Miss nant. Her dictation has produced weak and bilious Mulock, Miss Pardoe, and others, complete a effusions, and has taken a pleasure in freezing volume rich also in beautiful engravings. all the generous impulses of my soul, with doubt and despair. It is want of bread which made me ill-it is the grief of being obliged to commit a moral suicide that has made me sarcastic and sceptical. I related to you, one evening, the analysis of a beautiful drama upon the poet Chatterton, lately acted at the Théatre Français. People in easy circumstances, men well to do in the world, have for the most part found it very bad taste, that a poet should make a disturbance about his position, and complain bitterly of being forced by necessity to derogate from it. For my own part I shed many tears, whilst witnessing this struggle of an independent spirit with a fatal necessity, which recalled to me so many tortures and sacrifices. Pride is as touchy and irritable as genius. Doing my very best, I should perhaps have achieved nothing passable; but when an artist sits down to his desk, he has faith in himself, or he would not sit and then, whether he be great, mediocre, or a noncntity, he endeavours and he hopes. But if his hours are counted, if a creditor waits at the door, if a child gone supperless to sleep, recalls him to a: sense of his poverty, and the necessity of finishing before daybreak, I assure you, however small his

there;

The following from one of the "Letters" is but too full of mournful truth:

MIDSUMMER EVE. A FAIRY TALE OF LOVE. By Mrs. S. C. Hall. (Longman.) -Though ranging in the class of season books, this is of no such ephemeral a character, whether we consider the high purpose of the story, or the chefs d'œuvres of art by which it is enriched. We intend referring to it again next number, and meanwhile only intimate the Irish Fairy Legend on which it is founded. Mrs. Hall says in the introduction—

It is believed that a child, whose father has died before its birth, is placed by Nature under the peculiar guardianship of the Fairies; and that if born on Midsummer Eve, it becomes their rightful property.

This introduction will suffice to explain the machinery by which I have endeavoured to trace the progress of a young girl's mind from infancy to womanhood; the Good and Evil Influences to which it is subjected; and the Trials inseparable from a con

test with the World.

This beautiful volume is profusely illustrated from designs by Stanfield, Creswick, Maclise,

Amusements of the Month.

E. M. Ward, Noel Paton, Frost, Wehnert, Kenny Meadows, Topham, Goodall, and several other artists of deserved celebrity.

THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. By the author of the "Falcon Family." (Chapman and Hall.)—This is a very clever and very amusing book, with scarcely any plot in it; but the characters are well drawn, the incidents many and well told, the dialogue sparkling and witty. There is a vein of satire running through it; but it is satire of the best description-ever levelled against the false and absurd: for there is a hearty benevolence in the character of our author, which, unconsciously as it were, acts as a check upon his humour, and warms us towards him. We will extract the description of the "Bachelor" himself, whom we esteem and love, in spite of his eccentricities and caustic humour; for we descry beneath these external characteristics, the rich ore of philanthropy, which bespeaks toleration for the unimportant vagaries of the mind:

Mr. Barker, a man of much worth and more eccentricity, was now growing grey in a small set of chambers in the Albany, where he led the life of a bachelor and a cynic, attended by a single servant, frequenting society chiefly to pick quarrels with it, and never extending his visits or progresses five miles beyond Piccadilly, except when his friend Mr. Spread prevailed upon him to pass a Christmas, or an Easter, at Liverpool. Mr. Barker was one of the privileged men of the sphere he moved in. He was eccentric by licence, and his tongue had a charter.

AMUSEMENTS

THE SHAKSPEARE NIGHT.

This homage-for such it was-in honour of the National Bard went off with great éclát. Truly might He of Stratford-the dramatist whose theatre of fame was the "Globe," Bankside the humble actor whose loftiest part was his own Ghost-could he then have beheld, by some strange second-sight, the scene which took place at Covent-Garden on December 7th, 1847-have been dazzled by the far-off vision of his coming glory! And yet it is a curious psychological question, whether the Poet of poets thought merely of pleasing the wits and literati of Queen Bess's court, or whether his mighty genius held a prescience of future renown, when he would

"Bestride the narrow world, Like a colossus."

But such a national ovation as that of the Shakspeare Night was never paid to bard before, and probably never may be again. It was a scene to be remembered and talked of for years. We cannot help speculating on the time when we, old men and women, may tell our grand

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Possessing an income of some twelve or fifteen hundred a year, he plumed himself upon escaping the trammels and responsibilities of life. He had few intimate friends, and Mr. Spread was at the top of the short list. Barker would have had more friendships if he had been more tolerant and less crotchety; but he rarely curbed his humour, and when he was in his perverse vein spared nobody that crossed his path. He had a dry sharp logic for the people he chose to disembarrassed himself of him, or tried to do so, reason with; but when he despised an opponent, he with the first sophism that came to his hand. Of all the forms of opposition he loved contradiction most, and his great delight was to involve his adversary in the syllogistic difficulty called a dilemma. Barker rejoiced in paradox, and had some odd opinion or another upon most subjects; but in a pugnacious mood he would attack his own most favourite tenets, if anybody else presumed to maintain them. He hated three things intensely: music, the country, and abhorred. He called the piano an instrument of a lap-dog. Music was, perhaps, what he most torture, and thought Edward the First the best of kings because he persecuted the Welsh harpers. This is a true description of the hero of the book, who, true to his love of contradiction, continually exemplifies it in his kind deeds, which are ever in opposition to his censorious opinions. It is a genuine Christmas-book, though not classed amongst the number; it is well fitted for the social fireside-circle-a book to be read aloud; every chapter of it is good, abounding in graphic humour and masterly sketches of character and incidents.

M. T

OF THE

MONTH.

children of this combination of all the actors and actresses of our day, when Macready and Helen Faucit shall be as Kemble and Mrs. Siddons are now-names of the great departed; when we may chatter with garrulous pride how that there never could be such a Shallow as Old Farren; that all the present stage-beauties fade beside what we remembered of Vestris, the Ninon de l'Enclos who never grew old; that the Juliel-Shakspeare's Juliet-was Helen Faucit alone, as we saw her in our young days. And we shall shake our heads and lay down our spectacles, and tell of the grand Shakspeare Night of 1847.

Covent-Garden was crowded to the very ceiling; indeed, some days previous, pit and gallery had risen to treble and quadruple their original value. The grand mass of the audience consisted of the middle classes; and though this circumstance took away from the aristocratic appearance which the theatre presented in Opera time, and moreover caused a rather stormy beginning to the night's amusement, still it was pleasant to see that not only among the lofty ones of the land, but in the quiet homes of Old England, are the real worshippers of Shakspeare. The poet's heart finds its best echo in the universal heart of Man.

The monster audience did not settle itself into, terrified domestics, was most capital; and Keeley's quietude for some time, and consequently much Grumio pleased the audience amazingly. of the effect of the first scene-" Death of The Merry Wives of Windsor," as perHenry the Fourth"-was lost. King Henry is formed during Madame Vestris's reign at this certainly one of Macready's best impersonations- theatre, must be well remembered by many. it suits his severe style of acting-faultless but No comedy of Shakspeare ever came out with a formal. Every tone, every attitude seems ex- better cast. It was quite a treat to see some of ecuted by rule: perfect as both may be, one the old faces, in the "Buck-basket" scene. longs for some passing deviation that may savour Vestris looking as young and blooming as ever more of life and nature. Macready's delivery in her own role of Mrs. Page. Charles Mathews, of the Soliloquy to Sleep was an exquisite piece too-the best Slender on the stage-had lost none of elocution. Leigh Murray, as Prince Henry, of his raciness. His face is a study in itself— acted well. Beside the finished actor, the novice for he inherits his father's pliancy of feature, ran but a poor chance; yet Murray left little to and can almost change his countenance at will. complain of, and much to approve. Next came The subordinate actors filled their parts wellMrs. Butler's Queen Katherine, in which she especially Mrs. Stirling as Mrs. Ford; but the was every inch a queen. The audience joyfully scene which appeared to take best of all was the welcomed a little bit of comedy from Harley and first act of the "Tempest," by the Sadler's Buckstone, as Lance and Speed; and afterwards Wells company, with the addition of Miss P. delighted themselves in the capital scene of Horton as Ariel. Here Phelps, Laura Addison, "Falstaff choosing his Recruits." Here Farren, and Bennett outdid themselves. It was a trying as Justice Shallow, was inimitable; and though position for the two former, coming in opposition the Falstaff of Mr. Granby was anything but to Macready and Helen Faucit; but the result Shakspeare's Sir John, still it went off ad- proved very satisfactory to our Sadler's Wells mirably. Little Oxberry, as Francis Feeble, was favourites. Phelps is no whit inferior to Maas perfect a piece of drollery as could be. cready; and Laura Addison need fear little, even though following in the wake of Helen Faucit, though the latter is still the greater actress in her intellectual appreciation of a character, and has in most respects no rival near her throne; but the Miranda was Shakspeare's own. Miss P. Horton's Ariel is so well remembered that criticism is needless: altogether a more perfect representation of that exquisite poem-we cannot call it a play-could not be. Mr. Marston, as Ferdinand, had little to do; for which one ought to be very thankful. Last scene of all" was Mrs. Warner's statuescene from the Winter's Tale." This can be hardly called a display of acting-it is more of a pose plastique; but one of the most lovely imaginable. Mrs. Warner's only speech was delivered with those tones of deep pathos which she so well knows how to use: her attitude when clasping Perdita was magnificent. And thus ended this Shakspeare Night-a night worthy of note, as it made Covent-Garden the arena where all the best living actors met to try their powers, and be judged thereby. We do not think that one individual in the hundreds that crowded the theatre would come away and say that in our day Shakspeare is not appreciated, or that we have no actors worthy to portray characters of the world's greatest poet. D.

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"Juliet's Marriage Day" followed, being the whole of the fourth act of "Romeo and Juliet”—| the sweetest love-poem in the world. It gave scope for the display of Helen Faucit's highest tragic powers. Her drinking the potion was a grand study of acting. We heard some critics say that it was overstrained; yet it should be remembered that Shakspeare's Juliet was no calm Northern heroine, but a passionate Italian, gifted with a vivid imagination, which exaggerates alike her love-fancies, and her terrors in that hour of agony: therefore we cannot help thinking Helen Faucit's conception of the character was the right one after all. The most exquisite touch of nature in the whole was at the conclusion, when, after her paroxysm of fear, Juliet utters Romeo's name, and at once grows calm. Here, Miss Faucit's intonation, the sudden revulsion of feeling caused by the beloved name, were perfection. It was Juliet herself, the type of loving womanhood all over the world. Mrs. Glover, as the Nurse, was excellent; she is the very realization of that most life-like of Shakspeare's creations. The manner in which she uttered "Juliet! Juliet!"--her tone of nurselike cajoling gradually changing into surprise, alarm, and horror-was admirable. After the scene, the Nurse led on her Juliet to receive the enthusiastic applause of the audience. When will people see that this stupid custom utterly destroys the illusion of the stage?

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"Katherine and Petruchio" was a fine opportunity for Mrs. Nisbett and Webster, and the acting of both was beyond all praise. A common actor would make the husband of the "Shrew" a mere boorish tyrant, but Webster reads Shakspeare's mind better than this: he never forgets that Petruchio is a gentleman; and in his most violent scenes there is a careless dignity-the very politeness of passion. His step about the stage, cracking his whip at the

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DRURY LANE OPERA.

M. Jullien's spirited undertaking has commenced with every sign of success. He has done all he promised, and the English public have responded to his efforts with the warmth they deserved. The first performance of " Lucia di Lammermoor" was in every way a triumph. It introduced the prima donna, Madame DorusGras, who is already favourably known to Eng

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