of _King Henry VIII._, through the firing off of a cannon which
announced the arrival of King Henry. Perhaps, indeed, some might
regard this as a judgment against the manager for such an attempt at
realism.

It was seriously suggested to me by an enthusiast the other day, that
costumes of his own time should be used for all Shakespeare's plays. I
reflected a little on the suggestion, and then I put it to him whether
the characters in _Julius Caesar_ or in _Antony and Cleopatra_ dressed
in doublet and hose would not look rather out of place. He answered,
"He had never thought of that." In fact, difficulties almost
innumerable must invariably crop up if we attempt to represent plays
without appropriate costume and scenery, the aim of which is to
realize the _locale_ of the action. Some people may hold that paying
attention to such matters necessitates inattention to the acting; but
the majority think it does not, and I believe that they are right.
What would Alma-Tadema say, for instance, if it were proposed to him
that in a picture of the Roman Amphitheatre the figures should be
painted in the costume of Spain? I do not think he would see the point
of such a noble disregard of detail; and why should he, unless what is
false in art is held to be higher than what is true?

Little more than thirty years were to elapse between the death of
the honored Betterton and the appearance of David Garrick, who was
to restore Nature once more to the stage. In this comparatively
short interval progress in dramatic affairs had been all backward.
Shakespeare's advice to the actors had been neglected; earnest
passion, affecting pathos, ever-varying gestures, telling intonation
of voice, and, above all, that complete identification of themselves
in the part they represented--all these qualities, which had
distinguished the acting of Betterton, had given way to noisy
rant, formal and affected attitudes, and a heavy stilted style of
declamation. Betterton died in 1710, and six years after, in 1716,
Garrick was born. About twenty years after, in 1737, Samuel Johnson
and his friend and pupil, David Garrick, set out from Lichfield on
their way to London. In spite of the differences in their ages, and
their relationship of master and pupil, a hearty friendship had sprung
up between them, and one destined, in spite of Johnson's occasional
resentment at the actor's success in life, to last till it was ended
by the grave. Much of Johnson's occa