or see lean Pantaleone slip and
tumble through the transformation-scene of some gorgeous theatre?

Not one in a million.

Yet it is true for all that. Free speech was first due to the Pantomimi.
A proud boast that. They hymn Tell and chant Savonarola and glorify the
Gracchi, but I doubt if any of the gods in the world's Pantheon or the
other world's Valhalla did so much for freedom as those merry mimes that
the children scamper after upon every holiday.

* * *

We are straws on the wind of the hour, too frail and too brittle to
float into the future. Our little day of greatness is a mere child's
puff-ball, inflated by men's laughter, floated by women's tears; what
breeze so changeful as the one, what waters so shallow as the
other?--the bladder dances a little while; then sinks, and who
remembers?

* * *

Do you know the delicate delights of a summer morning in Italy? morning
I mean between four and five of the clock, and not the full hot mid-day
that means morning to the languid associations of this weary century.

The nights, perfect as they are, have scarcely more loveliness than the
birth of light, the first rippling laughter of the early day.

The air is cool, almost cold, and clear as glass. There is an endless
murmur from birds' throats and wings, and from far away there will ring
from village or city the chimes of the first mass. The deep broad
shadows lie so fresh, so grave, so calm, that by them the very dust is
stilled and spiritualised.

Softly the sun comes, striking first the loftier trees and then the
blossoming magnolias, and lastly the green lowliness of the gentle
vines; until all above is in a glow of new-born radiance, whilst all
beneath the leaves still is dreamily dusk and cool.

The sky is of a soft sea-blue; great vapours will float here and there,
iris-coloured and snow-white. The stone parapets of bridge and tower
shine against the purple of the mountains, which are low in tone, and
look like hovering storm-clouds. Across the fields dun oxen pass to
their labour; through the shadows peasants go their way to mass; down
the river a raft drifts slowly, with the pearly water swaying against
the canes; all is clear, tranquil, fresh as roses washed with rain.

* * *

To the art of the stage, as to every other art, there are two sides: the
truth of it, which comes by inspiration--that is, by instincts subtler,
deeper, and stronge