dy of "Woman's Wit, or Love's Dis- this appreciation reacted beneficially on guises," charmingly acted, was also the actors, who felt that good and careful brought out. work was never thrown away. Bulwer again came to the help of his friend by writing "Richelieu," where he fitted him with a part that gave scope for his best qualities of intensity, strong powers of contrast, and a certain grim humour. It proved one of the great successes of the season. Every character was in able hands. Elton, Diddear, Warde._Anderson, Vining, Phelps, George Bennett, Howe, and Miss Helen Faucit, all names of strength, appeared in the cast. Never was dramatist more fortunate than to be so interpreted. Never had manager such a staff.

In direct pounds, shillings, and pence, Mr. Macready was a loser by the season. So, at least, we understand him to put its results, where he says (3rd Aug., 1838): "I find I managed to lose, as I first thought, judging from actual decrease of capital, and absence of profit by my labour, 2500l., or measuring my receipt by the previous year, 1850l." But against this was to be set the positive increase of reputation and prestige, which secured him engagements both in London and elsewhere, that in the long run, far more than compensated this temporary loss. Moreover, the business of theatrical management, like every business, takes time to make, and practical men do not regard a deficit in the outset as an actual loss. Mr. Macready, no doubt, in his less desponding moods, took the same view, and having made a more favourable arrangement with his landlords, he took Covent Garden for another season, and opened a fresh campaign, with renewed vigour, on the 24th September, 1838.

The season passed off brilliantly; but Mr. Macready was dissatisfied with the money results. It seems to have left him 1200/. in pocket; certainly a most poor return for all the intellect and energy expended. Mr. Macready, at all events, thought he could not afford to persevere in the course he had so well begun, and he retired from the management at the end of the season. Of the warmth of the public he could not complain. On the last night (16th July 1839) he notes:

My reception was so great from a house crowded in every part, that I was shaken by it. The curtain fell amidst the loudest applauses, and when I had changed my dress I went before the curtain, and, amidst shoutings, and wavings of hats and handkerchiefs by the whole audience standing up, the stage was lit erally covered with wreaths, bouquets, and branches of laurel... . The cheering was renewed, as I bowed and left the stage; and as I passed through the lane which the actors and people, crowding behind, made for me, they cheered me also. Forster came into my room, and was much affected; [W. J.] Fox was much shaken; Dickens, Maclise, Stanfield, T. Cooke, Blanchard, Lord Nugent (who had not been in the theatre), Bulwer, Hockley of Guilford, Browning, Serle, Wilmot, came into my room; most of them asked for memorials from the baskets and heaps of flowers, chaplets, and laurels, that were strewn upon

Aided by a company of unusual and varied strength, he advanced still further the reputation already won by his Shakespearian revivals. "The Tempest" and "Henry V." were produced with a completeness and a sense of the picturesque hitherto unknown. The public crowded to see them, and proved that no truly well-directed effort to make the theatre a place of high intellectual recreation will be made in vain. Mr. Macready notes, on the 20th June, 1839, as "not a common event," that "The Tempest" was acted fifty-five nights, to an average of 250l. a night. But these performances were distributed throughout the season. To have run this or any other piece, however successful, night after night, as we now see done, was a thing then undreamt of. A practice so fatal to the actors as artists, not to speak of the mere fatigue, is the result of the merely commercial spirit on which theatres are now conducted. The most successful plays were in those days, alternated with others. Thus the actors, if they had not complete rest, had, at least, the rest of change. They came fresh to their work, instead of falling into mechanical routine. How much the public also gained by this it is needless to say. Play after play was brought before them, in which the performers were seen at their best. They to have left in our theatre the complete series learned to understand good acting; and of Shakespeare's acting-plays, his text purified

the floor.

The same enthusiasm was shown at a

public dinner, four days later, given to him at the Freemasons' Tavern, and presided over by the Duke of Sussex. When he rose to speak, he says: "I never witnessed such a scene, such wild enthu siasm, on any former occasion." In the course of his speech he stated that his hope and intention had been —

from the gross interpolations that disfigure it] Darley's "Plighted Troth," produced on and distort his characters; and the system of 20th April, from which Mr. Macready to re-arrangement so perfected throughout them, the last anticipated a brilliant success, that our stage would have presented, as it proved "a most unhappy failure." The ought, one of the best illustrated editions of play was full of fine things. So, too, was the poet's works. But [he added] my poverty, William Smith's "Athelwold," produced and not my will, has compelled me to desist from the attempt. on the 18th May; but not even the fine acting and more than one powerful scene could carry it beyond a second performance. "Marino Faliero " followed on the 20th May, and two nights afterwards the season closed.

Much good had, however, been done, and the truth had been brought home to many minds that, as Shakespeare wrote for the stage, and not for the closet, his plays to be thoroughly felt and understood, must be acted, not read.

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During this season, as well as during that which followed, success was chiefly All that Mr. Macready had lost at assured either by the admirable style in Covent Garden he soon retrieved by the which Shakespeare's best-known plays. increased value of his engagements else- were presented or by plays of already es where. Mr. Webster secured him for the tablished reputation. "As You Like It," Haymarket Theatre upon most liberal "King John," Othello," Macbeth," terms, engaging at the same time Miss Much Ado About Nothing," " CymbeHelen Faucit and several other members line," "Romeo and Juliet," "Hamlet," of the Covent Garden company, who thus "The Winter's Tale," "Julius Cæsar," kept alive the interest in the higher "Henry IV.," and "Catherine and Pedrama which they had helped to create. truchio," represented Shakespeare. "She Bulwer's "Sea Captain" and "Money," Stoops to Conquer," "The School for Talfourd's "Glencoe," Troughton's "Ni- Scandal," "The Rivals," "The Way to na Sforza," and other plays of mark, in Keep Him," "The Provoked Husband," addition to many of the older plays, were "The Jealous Wife," "The Stranger," all produced by Mr. Webster with a "The Road to Ruin," "Jane Shore,' finish no less complete - allowing for "Virginius," "Werner," "The Lady of the size of the theatre than had dis- Lyons," "Marino Faliero," and "Acis tinguished the recent performances at and Galatea," were also given, besides a Covent Garden. Mr. Macready continued number of minor pieces. Milton's "Coat the Haymarket, with slight interrup-mus" was given in a way never to be tions, down to the end of 1841. While forgotten; while among the new pieces there, thoughts of resuming the manage- of exceptional merit were Marston's "Parial sceptre revived in his mind. Soon trician's Daughter," Browning's "Blot after, Drury Lane passed out of Mr. on the Scutcheon," Knowles's "SecreBunn's hands, and the temptation of reigning in his stead became irresistible. Mr. Macready took the theatre, and opened his season in "The Merchant of Venice," on 27th December, 1841, having again drawn round him a most powerful company.

tary," Planché's delightful Easter-piece "Fortunio," and the opera of "Sappho." It is a splendid list, and the memory of the playgoer of those days naturally kindles as he reads it. In these diaries, however, nothing will strike him as so noteworthy as Mr. Macready's total siHis return to management was hailed lence as to those by whose co-operation with sincere pleasure by every lover of alone he was able to produce this magthe drama."Acis and Galatea," pro- nificent series of performances. Of himduced on 5th February, was his first great self, and how he acted, and was called success. Those who remember what for, etc., etc., we hear more than enough; Stanfield did for the one scene of the but no word appears of gratitude or recpiece, and the fine singing of Miss Ro-ognition for loyal service rendered, and mer, Miss Horton, Mr. Allen, and Mr. for first-rate ability applied by others, as Phillips, will quite concur with Mr. Mac-it most certainly was, in sustaining the ready when he says of the performance, fame of his theatre with sincere artistic "that he had never seen anything of the devotion. kind so perfectly beautiful." Gerald In the midst of success apparently unGriffin's fine play of “Gisippus," in which clouded, and when it seemed as if a thewe remember Mr. Anderson created a atre were now likely to be established very powerful effect in one remarkable worthy of England and its drama, Mr. scene, was produced on 23rd February Macready suddenly threw up the reins, following. It had only a succès d'estime. upon some difference with the proprietors

of the theatre about terms. All at once, I discharge at the usurper first of a copper upon a few days' notice, his fine company cent, and then of a rotten egg, followed found themselves once more adrift, and this very undignified style of sending their hopes of seeing one high-class home his points. The better part of the national theatre annihilated. The blow audience supported Mr. Macready, and fell heavily upon them; and they had no further outbreak occurred. But when not even the consolation of being called he returned to New York a few months to mind by their leader when he was re- afterwards, the Forrest movement asceiving what he describes as the "mad sumed a more serious shape. The first acclaim" of the public, on the last night night he appeared, copper cents, eggs, of his management. Again the honours apples, a peck of potatoes, lemons, pieces of a public dinner, with the Duke of of wood, a bottle of assafœtida, were Cambridge in the chair, and the presen- thrown upon the stage. At last the mistation of a magnificent piece of plate, siles grew even more miscellaneous and were accorded to the retiring manager. dangerous. Chairs were thrown from His speech on the occasion is given in the gallery on the stage, and the play had this book, but not even in it does he say to be brought to a premature close. Two one word about the very remarkable body days afterwards another attempt at perof performers who had so ably seconded formance was made. But this time mathis efforts. His own sensitiveness to in-ters were more serious. Inside the theatre gratitude, real or imagined, had not comparative quiet was maintained; but taught Mr. Macready to avoid the sin in his own person. Time does its work of oblivion quickly; and the readers of this generation should be reminded that there were actors and actresses in Mr. Macready's companies to whose assistance much of the great reputation of his management was due, for from these diaries they will get no hint of the fact.

outside a complete bombardment of stones and missiles was carried on. Through all this riot Mr. Macready persevered, "acting his very best," as he says, "and exciting the audience to a sympathy even with the glowing words of fiction, while dreadful deeds of real crime and outrage were roaring at intervals in our ears, and rising to madness all round us. The death of Macbeth was loudly cheered." But, while he was changing his dress, he was startled by volley on volley of musketry. The soldiers had been sent for, and were firing into the mob. Eighteen were killed, and many wounded. Macready was with difficulty got away from New York to Boston, where he embarked for England on 23rd May, 1849, effectually cured of his dream of settling in America.

In the autumn of this year he went to America, with the glories of his Drury Lane management fresh upon him. They brought him a liberal return for all his pains. After a year spent in the States he came home richer by 5500l. than he had gone there. No bad return for what it pleases him to call (22nd April, 1848) "the worst exercise of a man's intellect." On arriving in Europe at the end of 1844, he played for a few nights in Paris, not greatly, it would appear, to his own satis- On his return home he commenced a faction, and then entered upon a series of series of farewell engagements. Happily, engagements in London and the prov- for himself, he seems at this period to inces, which occupied him, with varying have viewed his own performances with success, till his return to America in the something more than complacency. It is end of 1848. This visit was, upon the scarcely fair to let the world see the terms whole, an unlucky one. It brought him of high commendation with which he into contact with some of the worst feat- mentions his own lago, Brutus, Lear, ures of the "rowdyism" by which the Hamlet, etc. But notwithstanding all great republic is afflicted. Mr. Forrest, a this, he records (26th February, 1851) native and favourite actor, in resentment that "not one feeling of regret is interat some offence given or imagined, had mingled with his satisfaction at bidding apparently determined to make the land adieu to the occupation of his life." That of freedom too hot to hold the English same evening saw him for the last time tragedian. When Mr. Macready, soon upon the stage. The play was "Macafter his arrival, appeared in Philadelphia, beth," and the stage that of Drury Lane. hissing and catcalls greeted his entry as "I acted Macbeth," he says, "with a realMacbeth. "I went through the part," he ity, a vigour, a truth, a dignity, that I writes, "cheerily and defyingly, pointing never before threw into the delineation at the scoundrels such passages as I of this favourite character." The audi dare do all,' etc." No wonder that the 'ence were in no critical mood. They had

that he looked back with yearning fondness to the studies and pursuits which had made him famous. The fretful jealousies, the passionate wilfulness of the old times seemed to have faded into the dim past, and no longer marred the mem

come to do honour to one to whom they | the calm wisdom of a gentle and thoughtowed much pure pleasure from an art, ful old age. We have reason to know which they, at least, did not despise, and they thought of little else. Such were the greeting and farewell they gave him, that he says: "No actor has ever received such testimony of respect and regard in this country." His triumph did not end here. Four days afterwards a public din-ory of kindness done, and loyal service ner, at which six hundred guests were assembled, was given to him. His constant friend, Sir E. L. Bulwer, presided, and around him were gathered many of the most distinguished men of the day. The chairman pronounced a brilliant panegyric, and the speaking generally was good. One speech appeared in the papers, and is here reprinted, which we well remember was not spoken. It had been prepared by the Chevalier Bunsen, and was by far the ablest of them all; but it came so late in the programme that Bunsen wisely substituted for it a very few words.

The curtain could not have fallen upon a more splendid close to an honourable career. Surely all these honours, these unreserved congratulations, might have made Mr. Macready forget his old apprehensions that he was looked down upon because he was an actor. But no, the same feeling remained; though with it comes the absurd conviction that, because he is an actor no longer, he "can now look his fellow-men, whatever their station, in the face, and assert his equality" ("Diary," 19th March, 1851). He quite forgets that, had he not been an actor, he would have been nobody. The applause, the "salutations in the marketplace," so precious to a man of his temperament, would never have been his. The grandson of the Dublin upholsterer would have had no Reminiscences" to write, no name to be proud of, or to be carried down to generations beyond his

own.

Mr. Macready survived his retirement from the stage more than twenty-two years, which he spent first at Sherborne, and afterwards at Cheltenham, where he died on the 27th April, 1873. It was his fate to see many of his "dear ones laid in earth." His wife, and most of his children, preceded him to the grave. He married most happily a second time in 1860. Removed from the stage and its jealousies, all his fine qualities had freer scope; and we think now with pleasure of his venerable and noble head, as we saw it last in 1872, and of the sweet smile of his beautiful mouth, which spoke of

rendered to him. He had done much good in the sphere which Providence had assigned him, and we believe had learned to know that it was not for him to repine, if "the Divinity that shapes our ends had so shaped his, that his work was to be accomplished upon the stage. It is of the man as we then saw him, the man whom we had known as a highly-cultivated and essentially kind-hearted gentleman, that we would rather think, than of the actor with all his weaknesses cruelly laid bare, whom these volumes have placed before us.

From Blackwood's Magazine. GIANNETTO.

CHAPTER VII.

WE were careful, before going, to leave our address in England with the Franciscans, the Matteis, and the curato of San Jacopo, to whom I sent two or three envelopes directed to myself and stamped; and it was through occasional correspondence with all these that we heard enough of Giannetto and his wife to enable me to carry on the thread of their history.

When Fra Geronimo reached Venice, he established himself in the convent of his order, and set himself to watch.

All Giannetto's old passion for the sea returned when he again beheld it. In all weathers, at all hours, he was out,

now gliding along the silent canals in the smooth, swift gondola- now rowing far out of the town and beyond the wide lagoons, dancing on the waves, and feeling a wild enjoyment in his freedom. He was never still; a sort of burning, overpowering restlessness seemed to possess him, body and soul. He was always singing: when at home, bending over his little child, he would sing softly and sweetly, till the tears welled into Elvira's eyes; when tossing on the sea, and the wind and waves were high, the passers-by leant forward with rapture, listening to his wild and thrilling tones, then drew back within the shelter of

their gondolas with a shudder, at they | yard-where a few thirsty orange-trees knew not what.

drooped and pined for want of care-up a marble staircase, and into a suite of long lofty rooms. They were hung with old, faded green silk; but the heavy stucco ceilings, richly gilt and painted, retained somewhat of their original lustre.

Nothing seemed to affect his voice. When the violent heat came on, and the other singers at the opera found their voices becoming weak and hoarse, his was the same as ever there was no variation in its power. After singing the whole night it was clear and strong as at the beginning. His fellow-actors became uneasy and suspicious, though of what they could not define; but involuntarily they drew further and further aloof from him, so that he and Elvira found them-fully closed with dark-blue blinds, exselves without friends, and with but few cepting one which had been set wide acquaintances, in Venice. open, and admitted a stream of almost visible heat.

Through three of these rooms Giannetto passed, till he reached the furthest, that overhanging the Grand Canal, which was Elvira's favourite apartment.

It was nearly dark, the windows care

It was a calm sultry evening in July, and Giannetto had been out all through On the floor in front of this window, the afternoon. He was weary and heated, and on the balcony without, five or six and lay back in his gondola, leaving its pigeons, beautiful in their soft opal pluguidance (not according to his wont) to mage, were pecking up bits of bread and the gondolier. As they glided through cake; and among them, with bare feet the streets, the strong smell of the and shoulders, sat the dark-eyed little almost stagnant water sickened him. child, Felicità. The pigeons were billing "Hasten!" he said; "an extra buona-and cooing all round her, some venturing mano for speed." even to hop on her tiny feet, causing her to crow with delight.

The gondolier smiled, and bent more willingly on his long oar. "The Signore As Giannetto entered, Elvira came foris generous," he said. "I was idle, I was ward from the dark corner where she had not working with a will; but times are been seated, and pointed to the child. bad, and, heaven help us! we have be-" See, Nino," she said (for so she called come lazy." him)—“look, Nino mine! - is it not "Times are always bad in Venice," pretty? The pigeons of St. Mark love said Giannetto, irritably; "it is always the same story with you all."

The man gave a little patient sigh. The gondola skimmed out of the Grand Canal, and stopped before the steps of a palace on one of the smaller canals. Giannetto paid him, and stepped lightly

out.

our little child; they come thus every
day." Giannetto thought lovingly that
she looked as pretty and as pure as the
little stainless child; he looked down on
her very fondly. "Alas!" she said,
pressing her soft
"how it burns!
should not go out
days like these."

hand on his brow,
It is too hot; you
in the great heat on

Giannetto advanced to the little Felicità, and held out his hands. At his approach the pigeons took alarm, and began to fly out of the window. "See," said Giannetto, bitterly, "all good and holy things fly at my approach !"

Elvira hastily snatched up her child and held it towards her husband, smiling. The little one put out her arms, and

It was a very old and crumbling, though once fine, building, this Palazzo Lucchetti, in which Giannetto and his family had taken apartments. One large room with hanging balconies looked on to the Grand Canal, but the long façade of the palace was on the smaller street. Beautiful it was in its decay, with its walls of great hewn stones, in which the rusted iron rings for torches yet remained. The posts to which, the gon-jumped to be taken. dolas were fastened still bore the bright "Here, Nino," she replied; "there is colours of the old family to whom the the best answer. Those foolish pigeons palace had belonged, and from whom know quite well that a child cannot hurt it had taken its name; but the dark them; but they have not the same conwater scarcely showed their reflections, fidence in a man. Sometimes even per the paint was so faded away. Every- sons as well as pigeons think you rather thing spoke of sadness and desolation - formidable- just now and then," she of a city whose glory is departed. added, her voice quivering a little. "Not you, Elvira ?

Giannetto mounted the broad white steps, passed through the small court-never afraid of me ?"

You at least are