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. 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 a perpetual whirl of excitement, anxiety, fear, happiness, depression, misery, and bliss." "You have indeed been enjoying yourself," said Jacob, smiling. "How long has it taken to go through so much?” "Two days, my dear boy; only two days. I seem to have lived half a century in that time. Apart from the immediate sensations of the present, my mind has been wandering in the past. I have been tumbling and somersault throwing, in imagination, down Spawling's garden; mixing Indian ink at the pump, thrashing that big fellow from the country with the greasy dinner-bag; dodging Dorothy upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber; doing mock heroics among autumn leaves between here and a famous cottage at Cartown; wondering all sorts of things about you and Lucy; and, above all, falling desperately in love myself, and ready and willing at this moment to go through the last act with real properties. But it is like me. I ask you to tell me all about yourself, and proceed at once to give you my own history. When you know all, you will forgive my wretched egotism, and laugh at my miscellaneous sensations. But we are all strange creatures of impulse, and there does seem such a magic in this old town of our boyhood, that I must be forgiven if I am not quite myself here." Spen thrust his hands deep down into his pockets, then removed them, stood up, sat down, looked at the ceiling, warmed himself at an imaginary fire (which summer had covered up with paper shavings), patted Jacob on the back, and called him a "dear old boy," and exhibited many other signs of the excitement of which he had spoken. Supper was brought in while the two young fellows conversed, but it did little to interrupt their animated intercourse. Whenever an opportunity occurred Jacob told Spen of his troubles and triumphs, and Spen threw in at every opportunity snatches of his own experiences, which in their way were strange and interesting, but neither so varied nor so romantic as Jacob's. Spen had been hard at theatrical work for years. His stories were of patient study at home, drudgery at rehearsals, and hard work before the footlights; leading gradually up to that brilliant success of which we have previously heard. told Jacob that there was much less of sentiment and romance in a theatrical career than the public understood. Success demanded very much more drudgery and labour than was generally imagined. Details of dress, of manner, studies of look, gesture, walk, pose, and a variety of apparently small things made up the grand whole of an actor's art. But Spen was not willing, evidently, to say much He |