aracter I should like to notice. The First
Player seemed to me to act far too well. He should act very badly. The
First Player, besides his position in the dramatic evolution of the
tragedy, is Shakespeare's caricature of the ranting actor of his day,
just as the passage he recites is Shakespeare's own parody on the dull
plays of some of his rivals. The whole point of Hamlet's advice to the
players seems to me to be lost unless the Player himself has been guilty
of the fault which Hamlet reprehends, unless he has sawn the air with his
hand, mouthed his lines, torn his passion to tatters, and out-Heroded
Herod. The very sensibility which Hamlet notices in the actor, such as
his real tears and the like, is not the quality of a good artist. The
part should be played after the manner of a provincial tragedian. It is
meant to be a satire, and to play it well is to play it badly. The
scenery and costumes were excellent with the exception of the King's
dress, which was coarse in colour and tawdry in effect. And the Player
Queen should have come in boy's attire to Elsinore.

However, last Saturday night was not a night for criticism. The theatre
was filled with those who desired to welcome Mr. Irving back to his own
theatre, and we were all delighted at his re-appearance among us. I hope
that some time will elapse before he and Miss Terry cross again that
disappointing Atlantic Ocean.

TWO NEW NOVELS

(Pall Mall Gazette, May 15, 1885.)

The clever authoress of In the Golden Days has chosen for the scene of
her story the England of two centuries ago, as a relief, she tells us in
her preface, 'from perpetual nineteenth-centuryism.' Upon the other
hand, she makes a pathetic appeal to her readers not to regard her book
as an 'historical novel,' on the ground that such a title strikes terror
into the public. This seems to us rather a curious position to take up.
Esmond and Notre Dame are historical novels, both of them, and both of
them popular successes. John Inglesant and Romola have gone through many
editions, and even Salammbo has its enthusiasts. We think that the
public is very fond of historical novels, and as for perpetual
'nineteenth-centuryism'--a vile phrase, by the way--we only wish that
more of our English novelists studied our age and its society than do so
at present. However, In the Golden Days must not be judged by its
foolish preface. It is really a very charming book, and though Dryden,