such, was a complete failure. Matthew Arnold says he dislikes public speaking, and certainly his voice is—or was-unequal to the demands of a well-filled hall. Reading his lecture with the manuscript close to his eyes, placing a strong accent on the penultimate or ante-penultimate syllable and dropping the last altogether, allowing the voice to so sink at the close of a sentence that the last words were inaudible, without gesture or expression, Mr. Matthew Arnold combines in himself all the possible faults of a public lecturer. Sitting ten rows in front of the reader, I found it impossible to hear the whole of any sentence or to follow the argument of the address. Occasionally, a quotation more or less familiar could be picked from the general monotone-as Dr. Johnson's declaration that "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel," or Plato's description of Athenian society: "There is but a very small remnant of honest followers of wisdom, and they who are of these few and have tasted how sweet a possession is wisdom, and who can fully see the madness of the multitude, what are they to do ?"

But these were mere oases of sound in a desert of inaudibility; and of the fifteen hundred persons present, perhaps a hundred understood the lecture, to some four hundred an occasional sentence was vouchsafed, while a thousand heard nothing. An American audience is wonderfully patient and generous; and although at first from several parts of the hall came unavailing cries of "Louder," "Can't hear you," yet, when it was thoroughly realised that remonstrance and entreaty were in vain, the audience resigned themselves to the enjoyment of their Barmecide feast in a manner both amusing and pathetic. The lecture, if audible, would hardly have satisfied an American audience. Its purport seemed to be that majorities were always vicious and wrong; and that the only advantage to America in her great and increasing population was that, in so vast a multitude of fools and knaves, there must be a considerable "remnant " who, if fortune were favourable, which the lecturer did not anticipate, might redeem and transform the corrupt mass. Mr. Matthew Arnold is very likely right, but with these sentiments America has no sympathy. It holds that he wastes his rare powers in futile criticism of the Philistines, who are the practical men of the world and who do its real work. The night after his lecture, the wellknown journalist, Mr. Dana, in the same hall, repudiated his doctrine, and declared that the facts of America and Europe contradicted his theory; that in England and France there was little or no political progress, that in democratic institutions and the principle of equality were the salvation of the human race; while material triumphs by man over nature contained the condition of progress, a work independent of poets and essayists like Mr. Arnold. There can be no doubt that Mr. Dana truly interprets the feeling

of his countrymen, who are satisfied with themselves and do not care to be improved or instructed by any teacher however illustrious. Mr. Matthew Arnold, piloted by Mr. D'Oyley Carte, and inaudibly lecturing to New York society, too painfully recalls Samson grinding corn for the Philistines in Gaza.

The visit of Mr. Irving, Miss Ellen Terry, and the Lyceum Company to America naturally excited far more general interest than that of the English essayist. The journals and periodicals were filled with notices of the distinguished actors, and, on their arrival, the most minute particulars of their appearance, speech, and manners were given to the world. A likeness to Oscar Wilde, at whom America has not yet ceased to laugh, was at once found in Mr. Irving, and one paper quietly remarked that "he talked like an educated American and had but one or two of the mannerisms of the Cockney." From the numerous critiques of the New York press it would be impossible to gather any correct idea of the effect which Mr. Irving produced on American audiences; for the differences of opinion which exist in England as to the merits of his acting are still more strongly felt and expressed in America, and it was in the theatre alone that a just estimate could be formed. No exception could, it is true, be taken to the warmth and generosity of the reception of Irving, when, as Mathias, he first appeared on the New York stage. The cheering was general and long continued; and throughout the piece and at its termination he was most enthusiastically applauded. But The Bells was an unfortunate choice for the opening night, as the extravagance belonging necessarily to the melodramatic character of Mathias accentuated the mannerisms of the artist, and jarred on an unfamiliar audience. The selection of Charles I. for the next night and the first appearance of Ellen Terry was equally unfortunate; although both the principal actors, and especially Miss Terry, were most cordially received. The character of Queen Henrietta Maria is unsuited to Miss Terry's genius, as no one knows better than that accomplished lady herself; and the admirers of Mr. Wills's play, if indeed there be any, must admit that its tawdry sentiment and perverted history could hardly be acceptable to a democratic audience, who, ignorant of history as Americans are, still vaguely associate Cromwell with liberty and the Stuarts with persecution. "We have had enough of this antiquated stuff," said a young man seated by me, and this was, I think, the general verdict of the house. One singular point in connection with this play may be mentioned. When Charles I. attempts to kneel to Lord Moray the American house loudly applauded; and Mr. Irving has noticed this as a proof of the high intelligence of the New York audience as contrasted with the silence of an English audience. The

explanation is not as Mr. Irving thinks. The point is not applauded by a conservative English house, which considers the action which Mr. Irving ascribes to the King as indecent, inartistic, and an outrage on propriety. A democratic audience applaud, for the humiliation of a king is especially grateful to them.

as

Irving's greatest triumph during the week was in Louis XI., English playgoers will readily understand. It was a disappointment to find that his Shylock, which we are accustomed to consider one of his best characters, was not generally appreciated, and was considered ineffective and tame. The truth is that Americans have been accustomed to see the play treated in an absolutely different manner, as a one-character drama, in which the passion of the outraged Jew is the sole element of vital interest. This results from the system on the American stage, where the interest attaching to one fine actor is supposed to cover the faults and follies of third-rate supporters and an unintelligent stage management. In Mr. Irving's rendering of The Merchant of Venice the tragic element is subdued, and the play is left, as Shakespeare intended it, a glorious and lighthearted comedy, with one element of sorrow and pathos running through it, in the calamity and revenge of the robbed and desolate Jew. But whichever rendering of the part of Shylock be held artistically correct, the play was received in New York with more delighted enthusiasm than I have ever witnessed in a theatre. What Shylock loses, in Irving's treatment of the play, is gained by Portia, who appeared as the very Genius of Comedy, and whose irresistible charm of manner and grace of gesture, movement, and voice carried the house by storm. The character of Beatrice is probably that which best suits Ellen Terry, and this is reserved for Boston; but New York appeared satisfied that, in Portia, this charming actress had given one of the most delightful representations that had ever been seen on the American stage. Ellen Terry's success has been unequivocal and complete; while that of Irving has been as great as his best friends and admirers anticipated. He is accepted as an artist of the most varied and cultivated talent; and his stage management, in appropriateness, evenness, finish, and beauty of scenery, has been a new revelation to New York. If his genius has not been able to reconcile Americans to his mannerisms, natural and acquired, this is surely what those who know the conflict of opinion in English society regarding this remarkable actor must have expected.

LEPEL GRIFFIN.

POST MORTEM.

I.

Ir is not then enough that men who give

The best gifts given of man to man should feel,
Alive, a snake's head ever at their heel:

Small hurt the worms may do them while they live-
Such hurt as scorn for scorn's sake may forgive.

But now, when death and fame have set one seal
On tombs whereat Love, Grief, and Glory kneel,
Men sift all secrets, in their critic sieve,
Of graves wherein the dust of death might shrink

To know what tongues defile the dead man's name
With loathsome love, and praise that stings like shame.
Rest once was theirs, who had crossed the mortal brink:
No rest, no reverence now: dull fools undress
Death's holiest shrine, life's veriest nakedness.

II.

A man was born, sang, suffered, loved, and died.
Men scorned him living: let us praise him dead.
His life was brief and bitter, gently led
And proudly, but with pure and blameless pride.
He wrought no wrong toward any; satisfied

With love and labour, whence our souls are fed
With largesse yet of living wine and bread.
Come, let us praise him: here is naught to hide.
Make bare the poor dead secrets of his heart,

Strip the stark-naked soul, that all may peer,
Spy, smirk, scoff, snap, snort, snivel, snarl, and sneer:

Let none so sad, let none so sacred part

Lie still for pity, rest unstirred for shame,

But all be scanned of all men. This is fame.

III.

"Now, what a thing it is to be an ass! "1
If one, that strutted up the brawling streets
As foreman of the flock whose concourse greets
Men's ears with bray more dissonant than brass,
Would change from blame to praise as coarse and crass
His natural note, and learn the fawning feats
Of lapdogs, who but knows what luck he meets ?
But all in vain old fable holds her glass.
Mocked and reviled by men of poisonous breath,

A great man dies: but one thing worst was spared ;
Not all his heart by their base hands lay bared.
One comes to crown with praise the dust of death;
And lo, through him this worst is brought to pass.
Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!

IV.

Shame, such as never yet dealt heavier stroke

On heads more shameful, fall on theirs through whom
Dead men may keep inviolate not their tomb,
But all its depths these ravenous grave-worms choke.
And yet what waste of wrath is mine, to invoke
Shame on the shameless? Even their natural doom,
The native air such carrion breaths perfume,

The nursing darkness whence the vermin broke,
The cloud that wraps them of adulterate ink,

Hath no sign else about it, wears no name,

As they no record in the world, but shame.

If thankfulness nor pity bids them think

What work is this of theirs, and pause betimes,

Not Shakespeare's grave would scare them off with rhymes.

A. C. SWINBURNE.

(1) Titus Andronicus, Act iv., Scene 2.