though there is to be found the true school of comedy manners, and of this art of which we have been speaking, namely, of presenting a picture of the habits, dress, &c., of "polite society;" and this success has been obtained in France, not so much from the nice feeling of the people or their general good taste, for their actors as a rule have little opportunities of learning the etiquette and customs of the most polished classes of society; but they can supply it by sincere and unaffected acting, and by the knowledge that nature is gentility and refinement.

There was a representation of an evening party lately given at two houses of note: one in Paris, the other in London, and it is worth while comparing them. It will certainly be instructive to see how the principles we spoke of have been applied at each theatre. The English play is by a good writer, has passed its hundredth night of representation, and was played by what is considered a leading body of comedians. The French piece is the notorious "Princesse Georges" of "Dumas the Son," and was presented by the elegant corps of artistes who belong to the Gymnase. The direct comparison of the two companies is therefore unfair; but the English company might claim to hold the same rank among its fellows. The scene in their piece takes place after dinner; there is a collection of the various types of ladies and gentlemen that make up a dinner-party, with a facetious butler who takes a leading part, and who, curious to say, exercises the same influence on events that a butler in the French piece does. I would not insist very much on the differences in the mere dresses of the ladies, their manner, &c., but it is the spirit of the whole-the relative bearing of the idea of an evening party, as connected with the drama, the extraordinary vraisemblance of the whole, that makes the charm of the French piece. They, indeed, have those three charming and elegant women, Massin, Pierson, Fromentin, as ornamental characters, and Aimée Desclée as the fire and soul of the whole. I pass by their rich and sumptuous dresses the fashion in which they were put on and carried, which produced the same effect as though we were looking at great ladies of fashion, who had taste and elegance. We have seen, of course, on the English stage, dresses as magnificent, but they seemed as if worn by shop-girls who were not accustomed to them. Over the room, over the whole scene, breathed a sort of perfume; there was an air of softened luxuriance, the footlights were not allowed to blaze with an almost blinding effect that brings out with an unnatural brilliance every fold and speck. But it was the behaviour of the guests, host, servants, &c., that made the most remarkable contrast.

As the drama, and the most exciting portion of the drama, went on, the procedure of an evening went on also, in a kind of subdued fashion-giving a sense of life and motion very different from the stiff and almost regimental movements that are supposed to indicate a ceremonial of the same kind on the English boards. People changed their places, sat down by other people crowded round a table; the host stood for a few moments on the rug, talking to the two ladies on the sofa. There was none of that ridiculous and conventional fashion of appearing to talk which is invariably pursued on the English boards-that nodding of the head, that bending of the figure, and forced smiles, which convey to the audience that an animated conversation is going on. In the French piece it was evident that every one had conjured up the feeling that he or she was at a real party, and their dramatic instincts made them shape every look and motion according to that instinct. Everyone felt the situation; whereas, on the English boards, for all their sham animation, we can see their eyes wandering round the boxes; and know perfectly that, though making motions with their fans and handkerchiefs, they are really talking about some one in the stalls. Indeed, this style of conversation is generally scarcely attempted to be concealed, and the contrast between their stilted and unmeaning pantomime-a concession to the business of the scene-and the undisguised absence of the spirit of the scene, produces a most undramatic effect. In short, this is the curse of the English stage at present there is no lack of labour and drill, but the soul and independent dramatic interest is wanting.

In this French piece the effect of this steady subdued restlessness in the background-giving the idea of the abstraction, as it were, of the other personages from the real dramatic business going on in front, personages who are absorbed in dramatic matter of their own-imparted an extraordinary addition of interest. Even the servant business-the handing tea-how artistic and conducive to the one end of the drama. We know how this is done on our own stage. Nay, to go further back, we might put it to any play-goer, if he had ever seen a letter brought in and delivered properly, or the announcement that "Madame's carriage waits" made without some impropriety. There is something disagreeable either in the flourish with which the man enters, the pitch of his voice, the pronunciation, or the way he goes off, that is out of character. The person entrusted with these duties forgets that a proper servant knows his placehas that certain air of shyness and reserve which persons of inferior position have in presence of their superiors. Hence his voice will

be low, his manner quietly respectful, his walk slow. Indeed, any one who has been at good houses will have noticed the unobtrusive way in which servants make such announcements; whereas on the stage the merest lay figure of a servant is ridiculous in every motion. They strut in with a salver and a letter, which they thrust out at arm's length under their master's chin, stand stiff as a soldier while it is being read, face about, and hurry off as if "walking for a plate." They answer a question in a sharp smart fashion, borrowed from waiter-life. As for their pronunciation-“ Madarm's carriage waits" —that is their misfortune; but the rest is their fault. All this may seem hypercriticism, but if such a trifle disturbs the whole dramatic propriety of the scene, it will be admitted, from what we are about to say, that propriety in such matters actively contributes to the dramatic interest of the whole.

The Butler, in the "Princesse Georges," was played by Raymond, an artist of well-known finesse combined with extraordinary humour; and, as it was said, it would be worth while comparing his fashion of treating such a part with that of Mr. Compton's in "Muggles "—a similar character. Mr. Compton is an excellent actor, and at this time needs no panegyric of his merits; and therefore it is thus more to be lamented that in a successful piece he should have formed so false a notion of character. This Butler, in a genteel family, is presented as a coarse pot-house creature, with the manners and familiarity and general bearing of a "tipsified" mute. He has full possession of the drawing-room-stays there as long as he pleases, conversing with guests, and moving about among them without attracting remark. -all this set off by those grotesque, facial motions, of which Mr. Compton is a master, which are intended to extort laughter, but are independent of the proprieties of the situation. It was, in short, a funny character for Mr. Compton, not a Butler for the piece.

The French actor, on the other hand, was wholly subservient to the piece. He had little to do: one of our "swells" of the same rank would have contemptuously returned the part. But mark-the Frenchman's abnegation of self was rewarded by the play's lifting him into importance. To see even that common ceremony in plays of tea being handed round by a servant, as it was performed on the French boards, was something new, and would have amazed our British stage managers. The Butler glided about softly and noiselessly among the guests, among the tables and chairs, followed by, and directing, a livery servant who carried the tray. He seemed so anxious not to disturb-now arranging space on the tables, now whispering his subordinate, now taking away an empty tea-cup from

some one who was about to lay it down, in fact, behaving precisely as such a menial would do who, in a room crowded with talking, richly-dressed ladies, &c., was only thinking of his duties: seeing that every one was served, was not inconvenienced, and that his part of the ceremonies should be carried out to perfection. Later, when his share in the drama began, when, at the conclusion of the party, he had an interview with the mistress of the house to show her that she was in his power, it was exactly the picture we could conceive of such an interview at such an hour. The respect of the man-his embarrassment as he wished to convey that he knew the family secret ; his "puckering" the table-cloth as he spoke; the air of desertion over the richly-furnished room—all this was perfect; and when he was retiring and at the door, stopped instinctively to raise the wick of a moderateur, in a professional manner; even the French audience, accustomed to such precise points, could not repress their approbation.

STRANGER THAN FICTION.*

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," "THE VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES THE HERO AND OTHER PERSONS, MATTERS AND THINGS OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS STRANGE, EVENTFUL HISTORY.

BRIGHT bit of North-Midland landscape. A shallow, shingly reach of river flowing through mowing grass, and skirting the high-road of Middleton-in-the-Water.

There are cattle standing at a distant bend of the river. The foreground has a group of children playing within the shadow of an ancient bridge. An artist might paint the picture, and call it "Peace," though the bridge was the scene of a bloody battle in olden days, and in modern times had been the subject of many a noisy dispute at Quarter Sessions. The authorities always differed concerning the ownership of the bridge. City and county both refused to acknowledge the responsibility of repairing it. The local journals always contained racy reports of magisterial eloquence whenever the Middleton bridge was mentioned to the Court for repairs. I do not propose to enter into the details of this exciting local question. The bridge belongs to history, and it occupies as prominent a place in the foreground of this story as it does in the landscape upon which the curtain rises.

The children by the river never dream that the everlasting sceneshifter is at their elbows. They have fished and bathed in the quiet waters. They have despatched fleets of imaginary ships beneath the shadowy portals of the bridge to more shadowy countries beyond the Middleton meadows. By-and-by they will play at a higher game, with the rougher river of life for their ocean, and human hopes for ships at sea.

The shadow of the county bridge falls gently upon the calm and sunny river-falls as if it were the welcome shadow of a familiar

The author begs to state that the foundation of this story was laid some years ago in a provincial magazine. A limited number of the work was afterwards published in three volumes. It was the author's first novel. The story is now in some respects re-cast, and it is wholly re-written. Indeed, apart from the leading incidents of the plot, and so far as literary execution goes, "Stranger than Fiction" may fairly be regarded as an entirely new work.