evolutions of ordinary experience, become, in the ideal drama, artistic modes of expression; and it is in these that Ristori displays a fine selective instinct, and a rare felicity of organization. All is artificial, but then all is congruous. A noble unity of impression is produced. We do not clamorously demand individual truth of character and passion; the ideal sketch suffices. It is only on a smaller scale what was seen upon the Greek stage, where the immensity of the theatre absolutely interdicted all individualizing; spectators were content with masks and attitudes where in the modern drama we demand the fluctuating physiognomy of passion, and the minute individualities of character. When, however, the conventional actress descends from the ideal to the real drama, from the simple and general to the complex and individual in personation, then she is at a disadvantage. Rachel could make this descent, as all will remember who saw her Adrienne or Lady Tartuffe ; but then Rachel personated, she spoke through the character, she suffered her inward feelings to express themselves in outward signs; she had not to cast about her for the outward signs which conventionally expressed such feelings. She had but a limited range; there were few parts she could play; but those few she personated, those she created. I do not believe that Ristori could personate; she would always seek the conventional signs of expression, although frequently using them with consummate skill.

If what I have said is true, it is clear that the gain to our stage from the study of such an actress would be small. Her beauty, her distinction, her grace, her voice, are not imitable; and nowhere does she teach the actor to rely on natural expression. Still more is this the case with Fechter, an artist many degrees inferior to Ristori, yet an accomplished actor in his own sphere. With regard to Mdlle. Stella Colas, bad as our actors are, they have nothing to learn from her. As I said, she is very pretty, and has a powerful voice; but her performance of Juliet, which seems to delight so many honest spectators, is wholly without distinction. During the first two acts one recognizes a well-taught pupil, whose byplay is very good, and whose youth and beauty make a pleasant scenic illusion. The balcony scene, though not at all representing Shakspeare's Juliet, was a pretty and very effective bit of acting. It was mechanical, but skilful too. It assured me that she was not an actress of any spontaneity; but it led me to hope more from the subsequent scenes than she did effect. Indeed, as the play advanced, my opinion of her powers sank. No sooner were the stronger emotions to be expressed than the mediocrity and conventionalism became more salient. She has great physical energy, and the groundlings are delighted with her displays of it; nor does the monotony of her vehemence seem to weary them, more than the inartistic redundance of effort in the quieter scenes. She has not yet learned to speak a speech, but tries to make every line emphatic. Partly this may be due to the difficulty of pronouncing a foreign language; but not wholly so, as is shown in the redundancy of gesture and "busi

ness." Her elocution would be very defective in her own language; and its least defect, to my apprehension, is the imperfection of her English accent. With all her vehemence, she is destitute of passion; she "splits the ears of the groundlings," but moves no human soul. Her looks, tones, gestures—all have the well-known melodramatic unreality; and if a British public riotously applauds her energetic passages, it is but justice to that public to say that it also applauds the ranting Romeo, and other amazing representatives of the play.

With regard to the young actress herself about whom I am forced to speak thus harshly, I see so much material for future distinction, that I almost regret this early success. So much personal charm, so much energy, and so much ambition, may even yet carry her to the front ranks; but at present, I believe that every French critic would be astonished at the facility with which English audiences have accepted his young countrywoman; and he would probably make some derogatory remarks upon our insular taste. I do not for one moment deny her success-I only point to its moral. The stage upon which such acting could be regarded as excellent is in a pitiable condition. It is good mob acting: charming the eye and stunning the ear. The audiences have for so long been unused to see any truer or more refined representation, that they may be excused if, misled by the public press, and the prestige attached to the young Frenchwoman because she is French, they go prepared to see something wonderful, and believe that a Juliet so unlike anything they have ever seen is really a remarkable representation. The applauders find their more intelligent friends unwilling to admit that Mdlle. Colas is at present anything more than a very pretty woman, and peevishly exclaim, "Hang it ! you are so difficult to please." But I believe that were the stage in a more vigorous condition, there would be no difference of opinion on this point. If Mdlle. Colas finds easy admirers, it is because, as the Spaniards say, in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed is king.

180

"Mrs. Archie."

I.

THE dwelling-house at Glenrig lay towards the sea, under sheltering hills, in a mountainous nook of the county Antrim. It was a romantic old place, and, of course, a legend clung to it. The story ran that a mysterious treasure lay secreted somewhere within the walls, supposed to have been hidden, ages since, on the occasion of a visit paid to the mountains by Cromwell's soldiers. The Mistress MacArthur of that day had given a ball on a certain night, and danced until a late hour, in a yellow satin gown and a quantity of jewels. Early next morning the unwelcome visitors had arrived, and the family fled empty-handed, but no jewels had been seen in the house, neither then, nor ever afterwards. Therefore, the gossips held, some secret hiding-place had been resorted to, and one day a prize must come to light. The legend of the treasure had passed down through many generations, but latterly it had almost died out. One old woman in the neighbourhood, who claimed descent from a confidential servant of the above-mentioned Mistress MacArthur, had pretended to know the exact spot where the treasure lay, and all the circumstances of its burial. But this old woman belonged to a spiteful race, and would never tell her secret, if secret she possessed.

Aunt Penelope believed in it, and she had tried many plans to find out whether or not old Nannie knew more than she knew herself. There was no end to the sneers she encountered from aunt MacAlister on the subject of her credulity; but, whether from charity, or with a view of conciliating old Nannie, she did induce aunt Janette to take home, as playfellow for Letitia, a little girl, the old woman's grandchild. However, the girl had turned out badly and been sent away, after which old Nannie and she had left the country, so that there was no longer a chance for aunt Penelope's craze of finding the treasure being satisfied.

And, indeed, this present family seemed about as little likely to discover it as any of their predecessors. Old Randal MacArthur, who had been. visited with paralysis, was deaf, and had never quite recovered the use of his limbs, sat constantly in his chair, a patient cheerful Christian, willing to linger on among his children and his clan of friends as long as it pleased Heaven to leave him, but dreading nothing upon earth so much as change of any kind. His wife-"aunt Janette," as she was called by some scores of nephews and nieces-was a little, low-voiced woman, scarcely less. noiseless than her own shadow. Her daughters, Mary and Rachel, were each a fair copy of their mother-not in person, but in the placidity of their tempers, and the unwearied quietude of their demeanour. All three