characteristics of the old story-tellers of social life, and by evidence enough we are compelled to acknowledge that the race is dying out. Shall they be regretted? Well, it is impossible to deny that there is much to regret in things that are passing away; it remains to be considered what are the compensations. It is a question whether it is possible for imagination to invent a person bearing all the physical marks of personal identity. If the novel writer were really able to accomplish this feat, he would afford great satisfaction to ordinary mortals, by explaining the phenomena; and he would perform a still greater service if he would so place his characters on paper as to enable the reader to see the imaginary personages with his mental eye. The intellectual and moral characters of fictitious heroes and heroines are perceived clearly enough, but not so clearly their minute physical peculiarities. The reader does not fail to remember that the figure is tall or short, erect or bending, with eyes, hair, and complexion, dark or light. But if in real life there were only such items as these for sight to seize hold of, people would not recognise their friends and acquaintances. If any one thinks that in a work of imagination a person rises up whom the reader, or even the writer, would recognise if it were possible to meet him in the flesh, let him consider what remarkably divergent presentments artists have made of famous imaginary beings. There are as many different Venuses, Niobes, Madonnas, and Helens as there are original painters or sculptors. Some characters gain a personal identity by means of a particular portrait, as in the case of Mr. Pickwick, with whom the late Mr. Seymour made the world so well acquainted that we should identify him in a crowd. But that was Mr. Seymour's Pickwick, adopted gladly enough by Dickens. Does anybody fancy that Seymour's Pickwick lived in the mental eye of the author of the "Posthumous Papers" before the figure had ever been drawn on paper by the pencil of the caricaturist? That is a delusion. The figure is a very happy conversion of an author's into an artist's sketch-one of the happiest, perhaps, ever executed--but if we owe the character to the writer, we owe the physical individuality to the artist. THE new year is to see the birth of an addition to the daily press of London. For many years the Standard held the proud position of the Conservative organ, unchallenged and without competition. The rise and progress of the paper is in itself quite a romance of journalism. The proprietor, Mr. Johnstone, deserves the highest VOL. X., N.S. 1873. I commendation for his enterprise and his zeal. For a long time he fought an up-hill fight, and he fought it well. Victory crowned his efforts, as victory always crowns perseverance and courage. The Standard now gives the proprietor a princely income. He can afford to encounter opposition; and, at the same time, the growing popularity of moderate opinions and the gradual fading away of Mr. Gladstone's majority seem to offer an opening for a new Constitutional paper. Two gentlemen of considerable journalistic capacity are retiring from the Standard, and a north-country newspaper, which seems to be well informed, says they are to be the head and front of the new journal. The Conservative party rarely encourages its organs in the press, much less does it support them; but in the present case, my northern friend says, one hundred and fifty thousand Conservative sovereigns are ready to back this new enterprise. Some noughts may be taken off these figures, I fancy. But there seems no reason to doubt the coming paper, even if we sigh in vain for the coming man. Various other enterprises are spoken of for the new year, into the portals of which we are just stepping. I turn over my new blotting pad, set out the new date, and wish them and my readers all the success and prosperity which merit, courage, and true ability are entitled to hope for and expect. THERE are just now many indications of the growth of a higher and purer taste in dramatic art than has latterly marked the history of the stage. One of my contributors in the Gentleman's Annual has done full justice to the situation. In changes of all kinds mistakes will necessarily occur. The better days are discounted before Reform has done her work, and men incapable of forming a sound judgment of things too often step forth to guide the times. The management of the Queen's and the Holborn Theatres have shown a desire to interpret the better taste of the day, and minister to the higher hopes and desires of playgoers. The one has produced "Cromwell," the other "Lost and Found," both by men of literary capacity; but neither of them giving evidence of dramatic genius. These two plays are the closing failures of the year. The management of the two houses, and not the authors, are responsible for this. Colonel Richards's play of "Cromwell" is a fine dramatic poem, but quite unfit for the stage. If some of our popular authors would only condescend to work side by side with some of our best actors or most experienced stage managers, there would be fewer bad plays and many more successful playwrights. "EVERY Englishman at heart," said Sir John Lubbock lately to his constituents at Maidstone, "would rather fight out our quarrels, and regards arbitration as a cold or even rather sneaking resolution of international difficulties. I plead guilty to this feeling myself." The confession strikes me as somewhat rash for a philosopher, and a little hazardous, coming so soon after the lesson of the war of 1870, which I thought at the time, watching closely the feelings of my fellowcountrymen, led a great many people to think that war was a thing that civilised nations might well begin to be ashamed of. In the interests of philosophy, however, if not of peace, I am rather glad to find this distinguished ethnologist acknowledging this particular weakness; for is he not in so much the better position to probe the tendency to strife which remains within so many of us, coming to us as it does from the blood of our forefathers, the savages about whom Sir John Lubbock speculates so sagely? Masters of moral philosophy are sometimes at fault for lack of the weaknesses within themselves which beset their fellow men. This is clearly not Sir John Lubbock's case in so far as the barbarian instincts are concerned. THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FEBRUARY, 1873. STRANGER THAN FICTION. 66 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," THE VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c. CHAPTER XLV. AN ACTOR'S HOLIDAY. JACOB'S departure for London was accelerated, and his route thither somewhat changed, by a letter which he received at Neathville from Paul Ferris, better known to my readers as Spenzonian Whiffler. This letter had been re-directed from Dinsley by Mr. Windgate Williams, who had traced upon the back of it some wonderful flashes of wit and caligraphy for Jacob's edification. Spen's letter was brief. It informed Jacob that the theatre being closed for a short season he had taken a holiday, and was to be heard of for three days only at the Blue Posts Hotel, Cartown, where we find Jacob on the evening of the second day following his blissful time with Lucy Thornton. "You must be awfully tired," said Spen, emerging from the dingy coffee-room of the "Posts," and shaking his old friend warmly by both hands. "I am, old boy. I have had a long journey, but the sight of your good, kind face is as good as a glass of champagne." "Waiter, send in the supper I ordered as soon as you can," said Spen. "All right, sir; the cook's attending to it." "And now Jacob," said Spen, "sit down and tell us all about yourself. By Jove, I have experienced the strangest heap of sensations yesterday and to-day that ever afflicted mortal man. I've been in VOL. X., N.S. 1873. K |