management did not weaken the faculty of ideal contemplation, and render difficult, to say the least, the duty of considering everlasting ideas. This task devolves on other shoulders, not of necessity more willing or able, but suited to another kind of burden.

The press is a great power for distributing intelligence of all kinds. It is a vast popular educator, in science, the useful arts, taste for literature, music, painting, sculpture, in all that belongs to human existence in this world. A critic, a keen observer, a man of singular intelligence, himself a distinguished preacher, once said to me that he never read a paper that he did not come across something he wished to cut out and preserve; and he was prevented from doing so only by the number of such paragraphs. This too is the experience of other men, as I can bear cheerful testimony. This power of the press is increasing continually, and is becoming more and more beneficent. To every one who can look back half a century, it must be evident that in quality as well as in quantity the improvement is immense. That there is room for more will be admitted by none so eagerly as by editors themselves, who are tireless in their endeavors to raise their calling to the rank they perceive it should hold. The real friend of his kind must rejoice in the signs of such advance, for they prove that one of the chief agents of civilization is about its work.

The mission of the stage is no less lofty and peculiar than that of the pulpit or the press. Though its office is primarily to entertain, it aims at doing this in a way more refined and elegant as time goes on, thus promoting the æsthetic education of society. The epoch of Puritan protest against the theatre is gone by. Amusement is no longer associated with vice. The sources of turpitude have been, once and for all, removed from buildings devoted to dramatic art. Clergymen need no longer defend the

stage. The best actors move freely in the choicest circles. Even orthodox preachers show, by their attendance at places of theatrical entertainment in foreign cities, that their objections are not founded on principle, but rather on local convenience, and that they would gladly introduce a more generous form of culture at home. The deeper religious objection, that the actor's profession is essentially unreal, illusory, artificial, false, hypocritical, perhaps, inasmuch as he must pretend to be somebody else; must simulate a kindness, a state, a virtue, not his own; must wear borrowed clothes, and put on a mask, and seem to be noble when he is at heart base, is gradually disappearing under finer influences, at the common demand for higher conception, for more consummate skill, for nicer delineation of character, for a delicate quality of dress and decoration which a generation ago were unknown. Coarseness is scarcely tolerated in our days; rudeness is severely criticised. The arts of expression are cultivated because they are insisted on.

The passion for the drama, it is on all sides confessed, has its seat in human nature. The church admitted this long ago, in the miracle plays, by which received doctrines were commended to the uneducated classes. The church must admit it again in the new shape prescribed by the modern spirit, welcoming its gay coadjutor to a share in the task of educating society. For the actors themselves the foremost of them-are doing what they can to render their profession acceptable to the worthiest men and women. They work hard; they study incessantly; they consult the best standards of feeling. If they are ingenious in producing meretricious effects by the use of paint, cosmetic, and costume, it is simply because the public inclination runs in that direction, not because they themselves love ornament or the resort to tricks. As fast as they are permitted they will ele

vate the standard of taste.

ness is to make moral sentiment attractive; not to promulgate absolute ethics, not to diffuse information, but to make such morality as exists appreciated, and to recommend it by all the means at their command. The appetite for high tragedy is less and less importunate. Bold, melodramatic effects are seldom produced. Violent ethical contrasts are avoided. Strong painting of moral peculiarities is no longer in vogue. The finer shadings of life are indicated, sign of healthy realism in thought and emotion. The desire for comedy is chastened by a very considerable refinement in the character of comedy itself, which is taken out of the region of buffoonery and burlesque, and carried up into the domain of wholesome merriment.

a

It is beginning to be suspected, in fact, that the actor, and not society, is the principal victim of the profession. He is the sufferer from insincere conditions, if there is any. He must labor at night, when other people enjoy themselves; and his labor is especially exhausting to the nervous energy, so that he must sleep through the sunniest hours of the day. He is cut off seriously from social intercourse, even in the period of his fame; and until his fame is acquired he has no chance to go into the world. The chief interests of mankind — business and politics - have but little part in his life. The movements of social reform pass him by. He dwells habitually in a world of his own, a world apart from his fellow creatures. He belongs to a caste. His notions of behavior are suggested by his environment. His ideas of virtue are apt to be characterized by the peculiarities of a remote and fanciful ideal. The moral persuasions of a distinct order are visibly impressed on his mind. Both his virtues and his vices are incident to a calling that shuts him up in a species of isolation from his kind. His temptations are his own;

There have been times when the stage was made to minister directly to the political, social, and moral guidance of mankind; when it was wielded as a force by kings and courts; when its writers regarded it as the object of their lives to satirize folly in the interest of wisdom. In a word, the playwright was a prophet. But, as a rule, the office of the actor is to entertain. This is no mean function. A sorely tasked clergyman of Boston used to frequent, when he visited New York, a certain theatre, well known then, where he was sure to be shaken out of his cares by side-splitting laughter, and sent home a new man. The actor, as it befell, was no model of private virtue, but he performed this vast service for his fellow men. Better offices are rendered now, but they are the same in kind. To diminish in some degree the pressure of toil is a great blessing. Unhappily, they who least need to have the pressure lightened, the leisurely, pleasure-seeking classes, are the chief supporters of the theatre. But the most cultivated people, the most responsible members of the community, will become the patrons of it in proportion as its office is better appreciated. Still, the multitude require, more than the few, this solace of entertainment, for they have not so many resources in their homes and their daily life. They are the people who need to be amused. They bear the heaviest burdens of existence. The rich or educated classes can do without amusement, on ordinary occasions, or can obtain it through other channels. During the days of terror in Paris that marked the French Revolution, in 1793, between twenty and thirty theatres gathered crowds every evening, the actors and

actresses exerting themselves to keep quiet the agonized spirits of the metropolis. In the darkest hours of our civil war, when the ministers were sustaining drooping hearts by holding before them the precepts of eternal justice; when the daily papers published bulletins of dismay, and tried to put the most cheerful interpretation on disaster, the theatres of New York were thronged as they never had been before by men and women who wished to escape from painful thoughts. To some the mirthfulness appeared unseemly, but they who saw deeper beheld with thankfulness this provision for relieving the tension of an overcharged nervous system. Laughter follows close on tears.

This point cannot be too strongly stated. It would be a real misfortune were the actor to undertake the duty of the preacher; for then he would not carry the multitude with him, and the presentation of moral ideas would be sentimental, if not extravagant. For the actor to play the reformer would be a serious mistake, because he would inevitably be betrayed into fustian or silly pedantry. He would disgust many, and amuse none. All attempts to "purify the stage" by making it an adjunct of religion disclose a singular ignorance of the true mission of both. A play written for philosophers would not interest merchants, manufacturers, or artisans. Acting that might please saints could not be acceptable to sinners, as the majority of men are. The stage must represent the society it entertains. The player must be popular. Society, indeed, would be the gainer if actors and actresses would study to accommodate themselves better than they appear to do to the most refined moral sense of the community; if they would accept in good faith their duty as educators of their generation. The customary dependence on the hair-dresser, the milliner, the dealer in cosmetics, the

costumer, is not encouraging to moral excellence. The adaptation of French plays, with their inevitable meretriciousness, to say nothing of their daintily concealed lubricity, is not a sign of elevated taste. But this may be a passing fashion. The increasing popularity of American plays argues a nobler future, a more complete adaptation to the ideas of a young, aspiring people.

The actor is an artist. He belongs to the great brotherhood of the masters of perfect form, and he must not confound electric lights with beauty, or make paint a substitute for principles. The introduction of personal charms as a guarantee of histrionic talent, or a passport to histrionic success, as if it were enough to be beautiful, is fatal to lofty attainment, either in morality or in art, and should be frowned at instead of being indulged, as it is by a too generous profession.

That the stage has a very dignified career before it cannot be doubted; that it will rise above its difficulties must not be questioned; that it holds in its possession a mighty power for good will be gladly believed by enlightened minds. Its function is intellectual, and therefore boundless in possibility. There is simply no end to its capabilities. Though its office is to entertain, it is also its office to cultivate, to refine, to elevate, quite as distinctly as the work of the press is to impart a complete information, or as the task of the pulpit is to inspire the human soul. These are the three sources of power. All other agencies are but variations on the themes they propose. As time goes on, the peculiar differences in their design will probably be disclosed more and more. They will come to respect one another as fellow workers, and to rejoice each in the other's success; all jealousy and envy being laid aside, as between real artists who are endeavoring to promote the well being of humankind.

O. B. Frothingham.

XV.

As it often happens that, in affairs of importance, the minor events which lead to the ultimate result seem to occur rapidly, and almost to stumble over each other in their haste, it came to pass that on the very evening after I had got Nino's letter I was sent for by the contessina.

When the man came to call me, I was sitting in my room, from force of habit, though the long delay had made the possibility of the meeting seem shadowy. I was hoping that Nino might arrive in time to go in my place, for I knew that he would not be many hours behind his letter. He would assuredly travel as fast as he could, and if he had understood my directions he was not likely to go astray. But in spite of my hopes the summons came too soon, and I was obliged to go myself.

Picture to yourselves how I looked and how I felt: a sober old professor, as I am, stealing out in the night, all wrapped in a cloak as dark and shabby as any conspirator's; armed with a good knife in case of accidents; with beating heart, and doubting whether I could use my weapon if needful; and guided to the place of tryst by the confidential servant of a beautiful and unhappy maiden. I have often laughed since then at the figure I must have cut, but I did not laugh at the time. It was a very serious affair.

We skirted the base of the huge rock on which the castle is built, and reached the small, low door without meeting any one. It was a moonlit night,—the Paschal moon was nearly at the full,— and the whiteness made each separate iron rivet in the door stand out distinct, thrown into relief by its own small shadow on the seamed oak. My guide pro

duced a ponderous key, which screamed. hoarsely in the lock under the pressure of his two hands, as he made it turn in the rusty wards. The noise frightened me, but the man laughed, and said they could not hear where they sat, far up in the vaulted chamber, telling long stories over their wine. We entered, and I had to mount a little way up the dark steps to give him room to close the door behind us, by which we were left in total darkness. I confess I was very nervous and frightened until he lighted a taper which he had brought and made enough light to show the way. The stairs were winding and steep, but perfectly dry, and when he had passed me I followed him, feeling that at all events the door behind was closed, and there was some one between me and any danger ahead.

The man paused in front of me, and when I had rounded the corner of the winding steps I saw that a brighter light than ours shone from a small doorway opening directly upon the stair. In another moment I was in the presence of Hedwig von Lira. The man retired, and left us.

She stood, dressed in black, against the rough stone; the strong light of a gor geous gilt lamp that was placed on the floor streamed upward on her white face. Her eyes caught the brightness, and seemed to burn like deep, dark gems, though they appeared so blue in the day. She looked like a person tortured past endurance, so that the pain of the soul has taken shape, and the agony of the heart has assumed substance. Tears shed had hollowed the marble cheeks, and the stronger suffering that cannot weep had chiseled out great shadows beneath her brows. Her thin clasped hands seemed wringing each other into strange shapes of woe; and though she