Whatever may happen, he feels bound to warn in advance that small number of persons whom such a production might attract, that a play made up of excerpts from Cromwell would occupy no less time then is ordinarily occupied by a theatrical performance.  It is difficult for a romantic theatre to maintain itself otherwise.  Surely, if people desire something different from the tragedies in which one or two characters, abstract types of a purely metaphysical idea, stalk solemnly about on a narrow stage occupied only by a few confidents, colourless reflections of the heroes, employed to fill the gaps in a simple, unified, single-stringed plot; if that sort of thing has grown tiresome, a whole evening is not too much time to devote to delineating with some fullness a man among men, a whole critical period:  the one, with his peculiar temperament, his genius which adapts itself thereto, his beliefs which dominate them both, his passions which throw out of gear his temperament, his genius and his beliefs, his tastes which give colour to his passions, his habits which regulate his tastes and muzzle his passions, and with the innumerable procession of men of every sort whom these various elements keep in constant commotion about him; the other, with its manners, its laws, its fashions, its wit, its attainments, its superstitions, its events, and its people, whom all these first causes in turn mould like soft wax.  It is needless to say that such a picture will be of huge proportions.  Instead of one personality, like that with which the abstract drama of the old school is content, there will be twenty, forty, fifty,—­who knows how many?—­of every size and of every degree of importance.  There will be a crowd of characters in the drama.  Would it not be niggardly to assign it two hours only, and give up the rest of the performance to opera-comique or farce? to cut Shakespeare for Bobeche?—­And do not imagine that, if the plot is well adjusted, the multitude of characters set in motion will cause fatigue to the spectator or confusion in the drama.  Shakespeare, abounding in petty details, is at the same time, and for that very reason, imposing by the grandeur of the ensemble. It is the oak which casts a most extensive shadow with its myriads of slender leaves.

Let us hope that people in France will ere long become accustomed to devote a whole evening to a single play.  In England and Germany there are plays that last six hours.  The Greeks, about whom we hear so much, the Greeks—­and after the fashion of Scuderi we will cite at this point the classicist Dacier, in the seventh chapter of his Poetics—­the Greeks sometimes went so far as to have twelve or sixteen plays acted in a single day.  Among a people who are fond of spectacles the attention is more lively than is commonly believed The Mariage de Figaro, the connecting link of Beaumarchais’s great trilogy, occupies the whole evening, and who was ever bored or fatigued by it Beaumarchais was worthy to