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our own; the wisdom of all is made manifest to, but when they are known, then may we turn to each; by this we may, as it were, listen to the the writer before us for sympathy, since she too glowing language of the great dead; we may hear has suffered; for counsel, since she has arrived their voices from the past, as though they yet

at a rock-founded eminence to which she would breathed beside us ; and by this, oh, glorious and lead us. Everything, however, that we could entrancing thought! by this we address the futureby this we may speak with the unborn !

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 LETTERS OF A TRAVELLER. By George Ashurst's translation is in every way admirable, Sand. Translated by Eliza A. Ashurst. Edited infusing the very spirit of the original into our by Matilda M. Hays. (Churton.)-Only a few own rich language :inonths since we made some passing comments Let those who have never suffered from the grieron a work, the able translation of which has

ances of the present day, to wbom life as it is-withlately reached us. But without reference to our out a heaven, without love, with no common faithpages, every reader of the current literature or

appears yet desirable and normal, and who, shadows noticer even of the reviews of the day, must be among shadows, demand from this existence merely cognizant of the series of translations under- a course of agreeable sensations---from art, the pas. taken by Miss Hays about a twelvemonth ago. time of an hour-from philosophy, a mere aimless The abrupt conclusion of the undertaking, for gymnastic exercise for the intellectual faculties—from want of adequate support, is certainly to be religion, only, brick and mortar chapels, empty placed by the thoughtful among

formulas, and individual hopes-leave this book un.

read. curious phenomena of the year just passing would find in it matter for admiration, landscapes

It is not meant for them. Doubtless they away. There is one point, however, which we

traced by the hand of a master, fascinating brilliancy consider quite incontrovertible : had the works of style, pages often equal, sometimes superior to the of George Sand, thus presented in an English best pages of Rousseau's Réceries ; but the essence, dress, been of the polluted class, which the the soul of the book, the only part to which the au. “ prejudice which condemns without a hearing” thor would attach importance, will utterly escape imagines them, alas! the enterprise would not them. Those only who have early learned to think have been relinquished for want of “ adequate with Schiller, that Life is real, life is earnest,'* support.” Works that pander to a morbid and and who neither shrink from, nor repulse any of its depraved taste have no lack of temporary popu- life has only been bestowed upon us that we may in

consequences, can seize its import. They know that larity or a ready sale, whatever their ultimate sentence may be—witness those productions, the has been implanted in our hearts by God, and that if

carnate in ourselves the ideal of which the prophecy names of which will rise uncalled to the minds of God has not placed us as isolated beings in this all whose opinions are worth propitiating. For world, it is to teach us self-devotion, that we may ourselves, we confess that our acquaintance with consecrate the results of this painful conquest to not a few of the works of that

something beyond our own individuality. They know

that the secret of this world is progress, laborious “ Large brained woman and large hearted man, Self-called George Sand !”

and incessant progress of the soul, and of all souls,

through and for each other, towards eternal truthhas been a mental epoch; and we could have that life is one of God's thoughts, realizing itself in wished that that very large class, to whom the time and space--that the physical universe is a grand French language is not as familiar as their own, symbol, a living form of this thought, of which each might have had increased opportunities of com

epoch unfolds a fresh development; man, an intellimunion with her great spirit. We willingly investigate the form, in order to approximate towards

gence, a volition called to interpret the symbol, to confess we should not be eager to place her the divine idea-that labour is consequently the law grandest works in the hands of youthful readers, of our existence ; repose, its desertion and suicide. or--for the number of years one has lived has * * * * The principal characteristic of this period of nothing to do with youth or age-of those transition, which has swallowed up one generation, breathing automata called by courtesy men and and in which we are still dragging our weary way, women, whose souls, crushed into torpor by cir- whilst it is gnawing into the beart of the youth of the cumstance and education, are content with the present time, is not, whatever may have been said, purposeless animal life of habitual selfishness. the want of poetry; there is too much sorrow, too The last, blind as moles, cannot distinguish the much of presentiment in the world for this to be

true. Neither is it the want of individual courage. light of truth when it pierces the world's murky Never, perhaps, since many centuries, has martyrdom atmosphere; and for the young, the young in been Craved with more stoicism in Europe. Neither years and beart, to whom Truth, that will one day is it the power of high thought which is wanting: the sbine out, is as yet clouded, and whose souls last fifty years have seen historical intelligence, the have not been revealed to them by the flame of closest analysis of social phenomena, scientific obserSuffering—even as a torch, cast into an abyss, vation and philosophical intuition, attaiu a degree of betrays its depths and its secrets-they, eager power which few of our ancestors could even have as they might be to learn, would fail to do so, conceived. The cause of the evils of to-day, so fatal for such discourses are of things in which they

to our youth, is, on one side, a foolish pride of indiare not initiated. The lessons of Life are to be arned only individually and by experience;

* " Ernst ist das Leben."

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viduality ; on the other, the want of persistant energy so low, he will go through the world, useless to of will. There is in us, children of the nineteenth others, a burthen to himself, pursuing the idea withcentury, something of the Titan and of Hamlet. We out its application, like Faust; or the phantom of commence by believing exclusively in ourselves, we suicide across the Glaciers, like Manfred. Alus ! end by believing in nothing. And both these phases how many souls, dear to our heart, have we not seen of the sou through which so many of us have come to this point? How many young men, per. passed, arise from one and the same cause—the want haps even amongst those to whom these " Letters of of a sacred and common faith. Life, tbus disin- a Traveller" allude, under fictitious names (and if herited, escapes from its straightforward path, an:l in this be true, it must be one of George Sand's bitits irregular course, now to heaven, now terest griefs)—how many young men have we not plunges into the lowest depths, instead of expanding, saluted at the commencement of their career, glowing calm and strong, through weal or woe. The Titan with enthusiasm and the poetry of great enterprises, falls, overcome by the law of things; Hamlet sinks whom we see to-day, dragging themselves along, preunder the weight of an idea—the Believer alone re- cocious old men, with the wrinkles of cold calculation mains standing, like an old oak beaten by the tem- on their brow, calling themselves free from illusion, pests. Sadly and silently does he accomplish his when they are only disheartened, and practical, daily labour without cowardly discouragement; he when they are only common.p'uce ! knows that the flower of his soul, hope, can only And how many amongst them might not have been bloom beyond the cradle of transformation, in this saved, if, instead of saying to them, “Be happy," world called the grave.

their mothers had said to them with the first developThe heaven is gloomy, the earth encumbered with ment of their intelligence, “ Be good and pure!" ruins, and from their depths rise long and mournful If, instead of saying to them “ Be rich," their wailings, which express the sufferings of the millions fathers had repeated unceasingly to them, Be of human beings who are swarming amongst these strong; know how to suffer! There is no treasure ruins. Proud and eager, the young man darts for worth a tranquil conscience! How many of these ward on his route, his pure heart throbbing with souls, good in themselves, but feeble because they emotion, his brow frowning from the inner working had no other support than their own individuality, of the thougbts of emancipation, peculiar to the age would have escaped the atheism of despair, if, at the which has sent him forth; he inhales, even uncon- acme of the crisis, a friendly hand had touched their sciously to himself, through every pore of his strong brow, and a faithful voice murmured in their earand manly breast, the freshening breath of the last “ Be faithful to the dream of your youth ; it is the hour of night. What obstacles can stop his course ? retiection of a distunt ideal ; but which, from the Danger is inviting at his age; the joys of triumph and very fact of its being implanted in each and all of us, glory, which every man at the outset of his career, must be realized sooner or later. Keep hope alive dreams of as so easily won, are his goal : suffering in your soul; it is the bud of the flower. Believe in itself has charms for youth. He goes onward, and friendship, worship love; but forget not that neither still onward, through impulse, not by the energy of friendship nor love is happiness; they are but its a reflective will; spurred on by hope, not by a senti- promise: they are two wings, bestowed by God upon ment of duty imposed by faith ; because he believes yonr soul, not to stagnate in mere enjoyment, but to in himself, not in God, and his holy law of labour : raise yourselves to a nobler elevation. Of what do still he goes on his way, espousing the cause of the you complain? For what cause, and against whom oppressed, revolting against injustice : be protests, if do you raise the cry of revolt? Had you then not in the name of Truth, in the name of his own formed so false an estimate of life as to imagine that dignity, against the phantoms, the gigantic lies which the reward of your labour would be met with in this encumber his route. Later, his energy relaxes, his existence? Does not the whole universe declare to step hesitates, he had dreamed of danger, but of a you that this life is but a passage from one element brilliant danger, and a deadly struggle: he has found to another ? Is not aspiration the normal state of inertia, that passive resistance which exhausteth but your soul? There is neither happiness nor repose killeth not; the mocking smiles of the sceptic, the upon this earth. What you call repose is egotism – indifference of the unintelligent many, where he had the death of the soul ; and what you dream of, under expected to meet the savage cry of hatred, or noisy | the name of happiness, would be the cessation of all enthusiasm. He had strength enough for the mar- aspiration ; that is to say, a cessation of all which tyrdom of the body, not for the martyrdom of the constitutes the essence of a human being; all which soul-barren disappointment. Friendsbips, which has its beginning, perhaps only continues its dehe fondiy believed immortal, have vanished like a velopment here, has its end elsewhere. In this morning dream. Love ought to have wreathed him lower world there is, for us, only consolation ; there a crown of roses, but the roses are withered by the is but hope. Is it the world's fault if you require icy breath of society-they have perished under the from it more than it can give you? Is it God's fault tempest of human chances ; the thorns alone re. if he has not accorded to you the power of reaching main. Glory flies before his pursuit. If he soars the haven before the voyage is finished? You are bigh, he is solitary ; if he clings to the earth he had so yet in the midst of the ocean : struggle on bravelywished to purify and transform, he is stained by its the hand on the oar, and the eye raised to heaven. impurities, and torn by its brambles. He has no faith The very billow which affrights you will forward you to guide his steps—the men around have no faith. on your way; and you are strong enough to conHis imprudent mother has inurmured in his ear, with quer it, as you would a fiery courser : but let your a kiss, Be happy !!! His father has said to him, arm drop, your energy relax for a moment, and you "Be rich" Rich and happy! Why should he are thrust back to the point from which you denot be so? Why should he be self-devoted to un. parted, or sıvallowed up in the depths. Cast behind happiness for a world incapable of appreciating or you, then, these phantoms of glory and enjoyment, understanding his sacrifice! This is the commence. fleeting clouds over your soul's heaven, illuminated ment of his temptation : if he yield to it, he be by the sun's rays one second, dark and gloomy the comes either a misanthrope or an egotist-Timon or moment after. There is but one reality in our huDon Juan ; or if his endowments prevent his sinking man life-duty, mournful, but sacred as the stars, as all lovely things. Make a pact with dnty : God, in talent may be, he has a great sacrifice to make, and his goodness, will double your strength, and give you a great humiliation to suffer in his own estimation. love for your consolation. I, too, have suffered-1, 'He sees others working slowly, with reflection, with also, have found life bitter. I have passed through love; he sees them read and re-read their pages, cor. all your storms; my heart has also been torn by al! rect them, polish them minutely, scatter precious your de ons. But God, my faith in duty and love, gems over them through after-thought, take off the have saved me. Men have seemed also to me de- least grain of dust, and then lay them aside in order graded, wicked; but was not this an added reason to to see them again, and to surpass even perfection! endeavour, at all risks, to make them better? Often As for himself, unfortunate as he is, he has made, have I taken the phantom of love for love itself ; but with blow of spade and trowel, a rough work, un. ought I, for that, to desert its reality, and smother its formed, energetic sometimes, but always incomplete, divine instinct within my heart? When I found hurried, and feverish, the ink not being dry upon the myself ready to fail, to sink under isolation and suf- manuscript before it must be given up, the faults not fering, I thought of other sufferings-of the child of even corrected !.... These little miseries make you the people martyred by misery, and deprived of the smile, and seem puerile to you. Nevertheless, if life of the sonl--of Genius misunderstood-of nations you admit that even in great things man's chief mov. enslaved- of those who have died for them with a ing power is self-love, you must also own that in the smile upon their lips- of Jesus on the cross, and his smallest things a man must suffer in entire abnegawords of forgiven’ss; and I went on my way again, tion of this self-love. And then there is something My cheek is pale and worn, my heart is dead to noble, something boly in that devotion of an artist pleasure ; but I am calm : faith in the future and into his art, which consists in doing well, in perfecting God-this is enough for the few days yet remaining | at the price of his fortune, of bis glory, of his life

. to us."

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 following from one of the “ Letters” is THE DRAWING - Room TABLE-BOOK. but too full of mournful truth:

Edited by Mrs. S. C. Hall. (Virtue.) — There Embarked on a fatal destiny, having neither cu

is a peculiarity about this Annual--- which has pidity 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 re

Well” 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. "ller 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

MIDSUMMER Eve. A FAIRY TALE OF is the grief of being obliged to commit a moral suicide Love. By Mrs. S. C. Hall. (Longman.) -that has made me sarcastic and sceptical. ) related Though ranging in the class of season books, to you, one evening, the analysis of a beautiful drama this is of no such ephemeral a character, wheupon the poet Chatterton, lately acted at the Théatre ther we consider the high purpose of the story, Français. People in easy circumstances, men well or the chefs d'auvres of art by which it is ento do in the world, have for the most part found it riched. We intend referring to it again next very bad taste, that a poet should make a disturbance number, and meanwhile only intimate the Irish about his position, and complain bitterly of being Fairy Legend on which it is founded. Mrs. forced by, necessity to derogate from it. For my Hall says in the introductionown part I shed many tears, whilst witnessing this struggle of an independent spirit with a fatal neces

It is believed that a child, whose father has died sity, which recalled to me so many tortures and before its birth, is placed by Nature under the pecusacrifices. Pride is as touchy and irritable as genius. liar guardianship of the Fairies ; and that if born on Doing my very best, I should perhaps have achieved Midsummer Eve, it becomes their rightful property. nothing passable; but when an artist sits down to his

This introduction will sustice to explain the madesk, he has faith in himself, or he would not sit chinery by which I have endeavoured to trace the there ; and then, whether he be great, mediocre, or progress of a young girl's mind from infancy to woa nonentity, he endeavours and he hopes. But if his manhood; the Good and Evil Influences to which it hours are counted, if a creditor waits at the door, if is subjected; and the Trials inseparable from a cona child gone supperless to sleep, recalls him to ai

test with the World. sense of his poverty, and the necessity of finishing This beautiful volume is profusely illustrated before daybreak, I assure you, however small his from designs by Stanfield, Creswick, Maclise,


Amusements of the Month.


E. V. Ward, Noel Paton, Frost, Wehnert, | Possessing an income of some twelve or fifteen huured Kenny Meadows, Topham, Goodall, and several a year, he plumed himself upon escaping the trammels other artists of deserved celebrity.

and responsibilities of life. He had few intimate

friends, and Mr. Spread was at the top of the short THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. By the list. Barker would have had more friendships if he author of the “ Falcon Family.” (Chapman and had been more tolerant and less crotchety; but he Hall.)-This is a very clever and very amusing rarely curbed his humour, and when he was in his book, with scarcely any plot in it; but the perverse vein spared nobody that crossed his path. characters are well drawn, the incidents many

He had a dry sharp logic for the people he chose to and well told, the dialogue sparkling and witty. disembarrassed himself of him, or tried to do so,

reason with ; but when he despised an opponent, he There is a vein of satire running through it; with the first sophism that came to his hand. Of all but it is satire of the best description-ever the forms of opposition he loved contradiction most, levelled against the false and absurd: for there and his great delight was to involve his adversary in is a hearty benevolence in the character of our the syllogistic difficulty called a dilemma. Barker author, which, unconsciously as it were, acts as rejoiced in paradox, and had some odd opinion or a check upon his humour, and warms us towards another upon most subjects; but in a pugnacious him. We will extract the description of the mood he would attack his own most favourite tenets, " Bachelor" himself, whom we esteem and love, if anybody else presumed to maintain them. He in spite of his eccentricities and caustic humour; hated three things intensely : music, the country, and for we descry beneath these external charac- abhorred." He called the piano an instrument of

Music was, perhaps, what he most teristics, the rich ore of philanthropy, which torture, and thought Edward the First the best of bespeaks toleration for the unimportant vagaries kings because he persecuted the Welsh harpers. of the mind :

This is a true description of the hero of the Mr. Barker, a man of much worth and more book, who, true to his love of contradiction, eccentricity, was now growing grey in a small set of continually exemplifies it in his kind deeds, chambers in the Albany, where he led the life of a which are ever in opposition to his censorious bachelor and a cynic, attended by a single servant, frequenting society chiefly to pick quarrels with it,

opinions. It is a genuine Christmas-book, and never extending his visits or progresses five miles though not classed amongst the number; it is beyond Piccadilly, except when his friend Mr. Spread well fitted for the social fireside-circle-a book prevailed upon him to pass a Christmas, or an

to be read aloud; every chapter of it is good, Easter, at Liverpool. Mr. Barker was one of the abounding in graphic humour and masterly privileged men of the sphere he moved in. He was sketches of character and incidents. eccentric by licence, and his tongue had a charter.

M. T---





children of this combination of all the actors and

actresses of our day, when Macready and Helen This homage-for such it was- -in honour of Faucit shall be as Kemble and Mrs. Siddons are the National Bard went off with great éclút. now--names of the great departed; when we Truly might He of Stratford—the dramatist may chatter with garrulous pride how that there whose theatre of fame was the “Globe," Bank- never could be such a Shallow as Old Farren; side-the humble actor whose loftiest part was that all the present stage-beauties fade beside his own Ghost-could he then have beheld, what we remembered of Vestris, the Ninon de by some strange second-sight, the scene which l’Enclos who never grew old; that the Juliet-took place at Covent-Garden on December Shakspeare's Juliet-was Helen Faucit alone, as 7th, 1847—have been dazzled by the far-off we saw her in our young days. And we shall vision of his coming glory! And yet it is a shake our heads and lay down our spectacles, curious psychological question, whether the and tell of the grand Shakspeare Night of 1847. Poet of poets thought merely of pleasing the Covent-Garden was crowded to the very wits and literati of Queen Bess's court, or ceiling; indeed, some days previous, pit and whether his mighty genius held a prescience gallery had risen to treble and quadruple their of future renown, when he would

original value. The grand mass of the audience

consisted of the middle classes; and though this ." Bestride the narrow world, circumstance took away from the aristocratic apLike a colossus."

pearance which the theatre presented in Opera

time, and moreover caused a rather storniy beBut such a national ovation as that of the ginning to the night's amusement, still it was Shakspeare Night was never paid to bard before, pleasant to see that not only among the lofty and probably never may be again. It was a ones of the land, but in the quiet homes of scene to be remembered and talked of for years. Old England, are the real worshippers of We cannot help speculating on the time when Shakspeare. The poet's heart finds its best we, old men and women, may tell our grand- 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 itselfacted 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,

“ Juliet's Marriage Day” followed, being the even though following in the wake of Helen whole of the fourth act of "Romeo and Juliet”- Faucit, though the latter is still the greater the sweetest love-poem in the world. It gave actress in her intellectual appreciation of a scope for the display of Helen Faucit's highest character, and has in most respects no rival tragic powers. Her drinking the potion was a near her throne; but the Miranda was Shak. grand study of acting. We heard some critics speare's own. Miss P. Horton's Ariel is so say that it was overstrained; yet it should be well remembered that criticism is needless : remembered that Shakspeare's Juliet was no altogether a more perfect representation of that calm Northern heroine, but a passionate Italian, exquisite poem--we cannot call it a play-conld gifted with a vivid imagination, which exaggerates not be. Mr. Marston, as Ferdinand, had little alike her love-fancies, and her terrors in that to do; for which one ought to be very thankful. hour of agony: therefore we cannot help think- Last scene of all” was Mrs. Warner's statueing Helen Faucit's conception of the character scene from the “ Winter's Tale." This can be was the right one after all. The most exquisite hardly called a display of acting—it is more of a touch of nature in the whole was at the con- pose plastique ; but one of the most lovely clusion, when, after her paroxysm of fear, Juliet imaginable. Mrs. Warner's only speech was utters Romeo's name, and at once grows calm. delivered with those tones of deep pathos which Here, Miss l'aucit's intonation, the sudden re- she so well knows how to use: her attitude vulsion of feeling caused by the beloved name, when clasping Perdita was magnificent. And were perfection. It was Juliet herself, the type thus ended this Shakspeare Night-a night of loving womanhood all over the world. Mrs. worthy of note, as it made Covent-Garden the Glover, as the Nurse, was excellent; she is the arena where all the best living actors met to try very realization of that most life-like of Shak- their powers, and be judged thereby. We do speare's creations. The manner in which she not think that one individual in the hundreds uttered “ Juliet! Juliet !"-- her tone of nurse that crowded the theatre would come away and like cajoling gradually changing into surprise, say that in our day Shakspeare is not appreciated, alarm, and horror-was admirable. After the or that we have no actors worthy to portray scene, the Nurse led on her Juliet to receive the characters of the world's greatest poet. enthusiastic applause of the audience. When

D. will people see that this stupid custom utterly destroys the illusion of the stage? “ Katherine and Petruchio" was a fine op

DRURY LANE OPERA, portunity for Mrs. Nisbett and Webster, and the acting of both was beyond all praise. A M. Jullien's spirited undertaking has comcommon actor would make the husband of the menced with every sign of success.

He has “Shrew” a mere boorish tyrant, but Webster done all he promised, and the English public reads Shakspeare's mind better than this: he have responded to his efforts with the warmth never forgets that Petruchio is a gentleman; and they deserved. The first performance of “ Lucia in his most violent scenes there is a careless di Lammermoor" was in every way a triumph. dignity--the very politeness of passion. His It introduced the prima donna, Madame Dorusstep about the stage, cracking his whip at the Gras, who is already favourably known to Eng


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