But fortunate as Mr. Wills has been in the selection of his subject and in his treatment of it, he is no less fortunate in the actors who interpret his work.  To whatever character Miss Terry plays she brings the infinite charm of her beauty, and the marvellous grace of her movements and gestures.  It is impossible to escape from the sweet tyranny of her personality.  She dominates her audience by the secret of Cleopatra.  In her Olivia, however, it is not merely her personality that fascinates us but her power also, her power over pathos, and her command of situation.  The scene in which she bade goodbye to her family was touching beyond any scene I remember in any modern play, yet no harsh or violent note was sounded; and when in the succeeding act she struck, in natural and noble indignation, the libertine who had betrayed her, there was, I think, no one in the theatre who did not recognise that in Miss Terry our stage possesses a really great artist, who can thrill an audience without harrowing it, and by means that seem simple and easy can produce the finest dramatic effect.  Mr. Irving, as Dr. Primrose, intensified the beautiful and blind idolatry of the old pastor for his daughter till his own tragedy seems almost greater than hers; the scene in the third act, where he breaks down in his attempt to reprove the lamb that has strayed from the fold, was a masterpiece of fine acting; and the whole performance, while carefully elaborate in detail, was full of breadth and dignity.  I acknowledge that I liked him least at the close of the second act.  It seems to me that here we should be made to feel not merely the passionate rage of the father, but the powerlessness of the old man.  The taking down of the pistols, and the attempt to follow the young duellist, are pathetic because they are useless, and I hardly think that Mr. Irving conveyed this idea.  As regards the rest of the characters, Mr. Terriss’s Squire Thornhill was an admirable picture of a fascinating young rake.  Indeed, it was so fascinating that the moral equilibrium of the audience was quite disturbed, and nobody seemed to care very much for the virtuous Mr. Burchell.  I was not sorry to see this triumph of the artistic over the ethical sympathy.  Perfect heroes are the monsters of melodramas, and have no place in dramatic art.  Life possibly contains them, but Parnassus often rejects what Peckham may welcome.  I look forward to a reaction in favour of the cultured criminal.  Mr. Norman Forbes was a very pleasing Moses, and gave his Latin quotations charmingly, Miss Emery’s Sophy was most winning, and, indeed, every part seemed to me well acted except that of the virtuous Mr. Burchell.  This fact, however, rather pleased me than otherwise, as it increased the charm of his attractive nephew.