his kneeling during the whole of Polonius’s speech.  For this I see no necessity at all, and it makes the scene look less natural than it should—­gives it, I mean, too formal an air.  However, the performance was most spirited and gave great pleasure to every one.  Mr. Alexander is an artist from whom much will be expected, and I have no doubt he will give us much that is fine and noble.  He seems to have all the qualifications for a good actor.

There is just one other character 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.