thazar, sang, Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,' etc. in Much Ado, brings us very near to Shakespeare. It is here reproduced by Levytype, as was Ariel's song in The Tempest (p. 352 of this ed.), and for the same reason: Gloves as fweet as Damaske Rofes, Maskes for Faces and for Noles, Bugle Braceletts Necklace Amber, Perfumes for a Ladyes Chamber, Golden Coyfes and ftomi [65] 些 -chers for my Ladds, for :ll: To give their Deer's Pinns and Poting flicks Pinns : And poting ticks of fteele what Maids lack what : શારી What from head to heele, what :: Turne over 1661 Come buy of mee come, Come buy come buy, buy Ladds or else your Laffes cry come buy. 'Poting sticks' is not a misprint for 'poaking-sticks,' but for putting sticks, as these instruments were sometimes called.-Ed. JORDAN'S BALLAD IN Collier's Second Edition, a ballad from the Royal Arbor of Loyal Poesie, 1664, is given in full. It was written by THOMAS JORDAN, and the main incidents of The Winter's Tale form the subject. It is as devoid of interest as of rhythm. Collier's feeble excuse for introducing it is: to show how much at that date the incidents of • Shakespeare's drama had gone out of popular recollection.' At the conclusion of the Ballad, whereof the scene is laid in Padua and Parma, Collier thinks that 'it de" serves remark' ' that 'in Jordan's time the error of making Bohemia a sea-coast country ⚫ had become so apparent, that he [Jordan] felt it necessary, even when addressing him'self to the population of the thoroughfares of London, to make [a change in locality]. 'The close relationship established by James I. between England and Bohemia had 'called general attention to the geographical situation of the latter. In our own day, 'it has been thought necessary to restore what some may consider "dramatic propriety," and at the same time to smother the poetry and pathos of Shakespeare in the trumpery of tinsel and the daubery of scene-painting. It is the greatest literary blessing that could have been conferred on our nation, that Shakespeare 'wrote at a period when the mechanical deficiencies of his art in a manner com'pelled him to gratify the ears rather than glut the eyes of his contemporaries. 'It cannot be too often stated, that from the period of the introduction of scenery 'we date the decline of English dramatic poetry.' ACTORS BOADEN (Life of Kemble, ii, 314): It was on the 24th of this month [March, 1802] that Mr Kemble presented his revival of The Winter's Tale, in all the splendor of decoration and power of acting, that he could impress upon it. In Paulina's chapel Mrs Siddons stood as one of the noblest statues that even Grecian taste ever invented. The figure composed something like one of the Muses, in profile. The drapery was ample in its folds, and seemingly stony in its texture. Upon the magical words, pronounced by Paulina: Music; awake her! strike!' the sudden action of the head absolutely startled, as though such a miracle really vivified the marble; and the descent from the pedestal was equally graceful and affecting. In Leontes Mr Kemble was everything that either taste or feeling could require; and the affection of Paulina never had a representative equal to Mrs Powell. The Perdita was a very delicate and pretty young lady of the name of Hickes, thus much I remember of her; but whether she had more or fewer of the requisites than other candidates for this lovely character, I am now unable to decide. I incline to think that this part is one of the few upon the stage that never was adequately performed. It is so difficult, at the proper age of the debutante, to find a simplicity, almost rustic, combining with the princely impulses that urge their way either to brave disaster, or partake the kindling wonders of unexpected restoration. Our stage princesses are so seldom personally at their ease, and are too sensible of an audience, to be much like the royal virgin. Our Perdita seems, in spite of the Fifth Act of the play, condemned never to be found. Perhaps no revival ever drew greater crowds than this did. CAMPBELL (Life of Mrs Siddons, ii, 264): On the 25th of March, 1802, Mrs Siddons for the first time performed Hermione. . . . She must have long foreseen the transcendant charm which her performance would bestow on [this part]; yet there was a policy in reserving it for the years of her professional appearance when her form was becoming too matronly for the personation of juvenile heroines. At the same time, she still had beauty enough left to make her so perfect in the statue-scene, that assuredly there was never such a representative of Hermione. Mrs Yates had a sculpturesque beauty that suited the statue, I have been told, as long as it stood still; but, when she had to speak, the charm was broken, and the spectators wished her back to her pedestal. But Mrs Siddons looked the statue, even to literal illusion; and, whilst the drapery hid her lower limbs, it showed a beauty of head, neck, shoulders, and arms, that Praxiteles might have studied. This statue-scene has hardly its parallel for enchantment even in Shakespeare's theatre. The star of his genius was at its zenith when he composed it; but it was only a Siddons that could do justice to its romantic perfection. The heart of every one who saw her when she burst from the semblance of sculpture into motion, and embraced her daughter, Perdita, must throb and glow at the recollection. It so happened, however, that our great actress, whilst performing a part, in which she will never have her equal, very narrowly escaped from a death more than fanci fully tragic. I have heard her say, that she could never think of The Winter's Tale without a palpitation of her heart, from the recollection of the incident to which she alludes in the following letter: The other night had very nearly terminated all my 'exertions; for, whilst I was standing for the statue in The Winter's Tale, my 'drapery flew over the lamps which were placed behind the pedestal; it caught fire, 'and, had it not been for one of the scene-men, who most humanely crept on his knees and extinguished it, without my knowing anything of the matter, I might have been 'burnt to death, or, at all events, I should have been frightened out of my senses. 'Surrounded as I was with muslin, the flame would have run like wildfire. The 'bottom of the train was entirely burned. But for the man's promptitude, it would 'seem as if my fate would have been inevitable. I have well rewarded the good man, and I regard my deliverance as a most gracious interposition of Providence.' LADY MARTIN (p. 390): I was called upon to play Hermione very soon after my début. I was still very young, and by my years and looks most unfit even to appear as the mother of young Mamillius. Why Mr Macready selected me for the task I could not imagine, and most gladly would I have declined it. But his will was law. Any remonstrance or objection was met by reasons and arguments so broad and strong, you were so earnestly reminded of your duty to sacrifice yourself to the general good, and the furtherance of the effort he was making to regenerate the drama,—that there was nothing left but to give way. All you could urge seemed so small, so merely personal. Therefore play Hermione I must, even as I had not long after to play Constance of Bretagne, a still severer trial and much greater strain upon my young shoulders. Hermione was a character which had not then come within the circle of my favorite Shakespearian heroines. It was, therefore, quite new to me. Mrs Warner had been for years the recognised Hermione of the London stage. On this occasion she was cast for Paulina, a character for which nature had eminently fitted her by a stately figure, fine voice, and firm, earnest manner. How admirably she acted Emilia in Othello I must ever remember, especially the way she turned on Othello in the last scene, in which Mr Macready was also very grand. On the audience, who could see their looks and gestures, the impression they made must have been very great indeed. I, as the smothered Desdemona, could hear only. My first appearance as Hermione is indelibly imprinted on my memory by the acting of Mr Macready, as I have described it in the statue scene. Mrs Warner had rather jokingly told me, at one of the rehearsals, to be prepared for something extraordinary in his manner, when Hermione returned to life. But prepared I was not, and could not be, for such a display of uncontrollable rapture. I have tried to give some idea of it; but no words of mine could do it justice. It was the finest burst of passionate speechless emotion I ever saw, or could have conceived. My feelings being already severely strained, I naturally lost something of my self-command, and as Perdita and Florizel knelt at my feet I looked, as the gifted Sarah Adams * afterwards told me, like Niobe, all tears.' Of course, I behaved better on the repetition of the play, as I knew what I had to expect and was somewhat prepared for it; but the intensity of Mr Macready's passion was so real, that I could never help being moved by it, and feeling much exhausted afterwards. The Winter's Tale makes heavy demands upon the resources of a theatre both in actors and in mise en scène. It was therefore only in such cities as Dublin, Glasgow, and Edinburgh that I was able to have it acted. But in all these cities, even with such inadequate resources as they supplied, the play used to produce a profound impression. The sympathies of my audience for the suffering Hermione were reflected back upon me so warmly as to make me feel that they entered into my conception of her beautiful nature. There, as in London, the statue scene always produced a remarkable effect. This I could feel in the intense hush, as though every one present held his breath for a time.' In Edinburgh, upon one occasion, I have been told by a friend who was present that, as I descended from the pedestal and advanced toward Leontes, the audience simultaneously rose from their seats, as if drawn out of them * This sweet accomplished lady wrote many poems and hymns. Her drama, in blank verse, founded on the story of Vivia Perpetua,' one of the first Christian martyrs, was greatly admired in a wide literary circle. Her beautiful hymn Nearer, my 'God, to Thee,' we all know, and are moved by, when sung in our churches, as it often is. by surprise and reverential awe at the presence of one who bore more of heaven than of earth about her. I can account for this only by supposing that the soul of Hermione had for the time entered into mine, and 'so divinely wrought, that one might 'almost say,' with the old poet, my 'body thought.' Of course I did not observe this movement of the audience, for my imagination was too full of what I felt was then in Hermione's heart, to leave me eyes for any but Leontes. You may judge of the pleasure it was to play to audiences of this kind. As there is a pleasure in po⚫etic pains, which only poets know,' so there is a pleasure in the actor's pains, which only actors know, who have to deal with the high actions and high passions' of which Milton speaks. Unless they know these pains, and feel a joy in knowing them, their vocation can never rise to the level of an art. THE SCOTCHMAN (Edinburgh, 3d March, 1847): MISS HELEN FAUCIT has, in Hermione, given life to another of Shakespeare's Women,' in embodying whom her genius seems alone to find its full scope. . . . Here, as in all MISS FAUCIT's delineations, while other performers force us back on our imagination, we feel that our imagination has been raised into a loftier region, and our critical apprehension widely expanded. The character is one with which only the most refined womanly nature can identify itself, at the same time that it demands from the artist the most subtle powers of execution, and affords scope for touching the deepest chords of imaginative emotion. The characteristic features of Hermione, as expressed by MISS FAUCIT in the early scenes, of confiding openness of disposition, frank in its spotless purity, and loving her lord so entirely that she loves nothing else but for his sake, prepare us for the shock of his insane jealousy, and for the reconciliation at the close of the play, which, without a love so absolute, must have been impossible. In her worst agony this devotion to Leontes is apparent. . . . The Trial Scene was throughout fine, grand, and majestic, with a majesty consonant with the sweetness and mild dignity of the character as shown in the previous scenes. We can only advert to the striking effect produced by MISS FAUCIT's expression and attitude, when she rises from the chair, forgetting all physical weakness in the earnestness of her emotion, with the words: "If powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then but innocence shall make Raphael's pencil might have caught inspiration here. We were reminded at first of his Saint Cecilia, but so great a variety of expression and perfect gesture succeeded that all comparison or suggestion was quickly lost. But the triumph of the performance, perhaps the crowning achievement of all MISS FAUCIT's performances, is the last scene. The thrill that passed through the audience on the first raising of the curtain from the seeming statue, told how intensely the spiritual beauty of MISS FAUCIT's attitude and expression was felt. It is not only no praise, it is altogether unfit to say they were statue-like. What statue was ever like that form? What statue ever breathed out the soul that modulated that face? It was the realizing of a sculptor's hopeless dream. There was there the symmetry of the most consummate statue, but, superadded to this, there were also the flowing outline and living colour which accompany only life. The spectator became an actor in the scene, and all Held their breath |