that direction with a reserve which I had cause to remember later. Even at the time I could not help feeling that it was slightly suspicious, especially as he had been so free on other points. I also remembered, afterwards, that he contrived presently to change the subject, and to engage me in an account of my invitation to Leachester and my business there.

Messrs. Fillottsons's representative knew Leachester slightly, and was acquainted with the Royal Hotel, which he had visited on one occasion. He knew little, however, of Carlyle, his life having been too full of movement to allow of much save newspaper reading. Still, he displayed an intelligent interest in the subject, and this interest was deepened when I related my discovery of the unpublished letters. I was just concluding an account of this discovery when we arrived at Leachester.

During the talk I had quite forgotten the other occupants of the compartment; but it now appeared that their destination was the same as mine. My new acquaintance opened the door for them; and as they passed me I found that the mother had not forgotten the unpleasant incident which had taken place. She gave me a resentful look as she alighted, and this caused me to feel a return of the former discomfort. It was during this temporary confusion that I took down my bag and left the carriage.

"I am glad to have met you, sir," said the man from Boltport; and I hope we shall meet again. Will you accept my card?"

We exchanged cards and shook hands cordially. I may say here that I have rarely met a more attentive and intelligent listener. A minute later I was being driven through the streets in a Royal Hotel omnibus.

When I reached the building my first act was to take my bag up to my room.

This room was No. 17 on the first landing. When I came down it was about five o'clock, and my meeting was to commence at eight. I took a hearty tea and then went out to call upon the secretary of the local Carlyle Society.

This was the headmaster of the Grammar School, and he received me with every pleasure. The evening's meeting promised to be an excellent one; Dean Houghten, himself the author of a volume on Carlyle, having promised to attend, as well as his guest Canon Worcester. I felt that everything was working for the success of my lecture, and for the suitable reception of my important disclosures. was in good spirits that I made my way back to the hotel.

It

This was at about seven o'clock, so I decided to dress at once, and then to give a few minutes to my manuscript. Although I never refer to my papers after my lecture has commenced, I always keep them before me for safety. On this occasion, especially, it would be just as well to make a thorough preparation.

I went up to my room and proceeded to open my bag. It struck me as I lifted it to a chair that it was a trifle weighty, considering that it contained only my manuscript, my dress-clothes and one or two other light articles. This reflection was followed by another, made as I took out my keys; the leather of the bag seemed rather cleaner and less worn than I had fancied it to be. I found no difficulty about it, however, for the key turned easily in the lock. Then I loosened the straps and slipped back the catches.

At that point my impressions were fully explained. The first thing I should have seen was my manuscript; but my manuscript was not there. Instead there were three or four magazines of a popular class, and beneath them several articles of clothing, tight

ly packed. I had carried off and opened some one else's bag.

On discovering that this was not my bag it was my plain duty to close the thing at once. But my thoughts had flown to the loss of my manuscript; and in a moment of pure absent-mindedness I removed the layer of clothing to see what lay beneath.

What I saw there was another layer of a very different character. Packed neatly beneath the clothes, against the side of the bag, were some half-dozen leather cases of a particularly handsome description. They were of various sizes, and each of them bore a coronet in gilt.

My curiosity was now awakened, and under its influence I went a little farther. Picking up the largest case I examined it carefully. It was locked, but there was a small key, apparently of silver, in the lock. After a moment's hesitation I turned this key and raised the lid. My first glimpse of the contents gave me a vivid impression of brilliance and beauty. At the second glance this impression was confirmed and strengthened. The object at which I gazed was a necklace of large diamonds!

Just above me was the white globe of the gas-jet. The blaze of light fell directly upon the necklace, and, as my hand shook, the rays were reflected from the jewels in a maze of changeful colors. Some of the stones, it seemed to me, were of extraordinary size, while the smaller ones were set in tiny clusters. There was a setting of almost nvisible gold-work, and the whole rested on a bed of white velvet.

I knew nothing of jewels, or, at least, no more than the ordinary man whose only knowledge is obtained by an occasional glance at a jeweler's window. I had an impression that the article in my hand represented a very large sum of money. It was worth hundreds of pounds-perhaps thousands.

Presently I closed the case and laid it down. There were five others, all smaller cases than the first; and I continued my investigations. It seems to me that the peculiar circumstances form a sufficient excuse for my conduct. In spite of what the Croxhampton students may say, I am not inquisitive by nature, and have a strong dislike for meddling of any kind.

I took up the other cases and examined them in turn; but my impressions as to their contents are too confused to enable me to give a detailed description. Let it be enough to say that two of the cases contained bracelets, evidently intended to match the necklace; two others, and those the smallest, revealed a pair of diamond ear-drops; and the final case contained a kind of diamond spray, intended, as I guessed, to be fastened and worn in the hair.

This last article was the finest of all. Most of the stones were small ones; but their smallness only served to set off the magnificent gem which gleamed in the centre of the ornament. The stone was circular in shape, and almost as large as the half of a walnut shell. To increase the resemblance, the under side, where it was laid in the gold setting, was flat. The face, however, was cut into a large number of triangular facets, each of which appeared to gather and refract, with thousandfold brilliancy, the rays of the gaslight. After I had gazed a few moments I felt myself almost dazzled by the unparalleled lustre. This was a diamond, indeed!

In sheer bewilderment I sat down on a chair that stood near, and looked about me. My room was a plain and comfortable one, but utterly out of keeping with the nature of my discovery. Wealth? There seemed to be the wealth of Croesus in this common, everyday travelling bag. What did it

mean? Where had it come from? And as I asked myself that question I suddenly saw the solution of the mystery. This took the form of a card, which lay upon the table. I had laid it there myself when I had entered the room first. It was a slip of white, bearing, in three lines, the inscription: "Mr. Charles Ashdon. Fillottsons Brothers, 191 Broadway, Boltport."

"Cheap jewelry!" I murmured, with quick remembrance.

Cheap jewelry-of course! It was now as clear as possible. The articles at which I had been looking with the wonder of ignorance were representative of Mr. Charles Ashdon's business. Glittering, showy, loud. Diamonds, indeed! I gazed again at the spray, and the proximity of that slip of pasteboard seemed to give it a very different appearance. It did not gleam so brilliantly; it did not gather up and reflect the light in such a glorious manner. Pshaw! I had seen "rubies" of Chambers's Journal.

that size marked in toyshop windows at sixpence each!

I closed the case, locked it and returned it to its place. Then I repacked the other articles and fastened the bag. It was fully time now to attend to my own affairs, so I hastened to summon a waiter. The man who came was a quick and willing fellow, who understood the situation at a glance. He told me of an establishment in the next street where I could easily obtain the dress-clothes I needed; and I lost no time in seeking it. There was no difficulty after this, and by a quarter to eight I was ready for my engagement. I was forced to make up for the want of my manuscript by a few notes hastily written, but I felt no fear in that direction. Years of similar work had trained my memory well.

At eight o'clock a cab was at the door, and I set out for the hall. By that time I had quite forgotten Mr. Ashdon's bag.

W. E. Cule.

Where did she dwell?

Who loved her best?

Moira O'Neil.

"Do you

"Sir," said Dr. Johnson, "I have not even mentioned 'Little Davy' in the preface to my Shakespeare." "Why?" ventured Boswell. not admire that great actor?" "Yes," replied the Doctor, "as a poor player who frets and struts his hour upon the stage-as a shadow."

"But," persisted Boswell, "has he not brought Shakespeare into notice?"

At this the immortal lexicographer fired up.

"Sir, to allow that would be to lampoon the age. Many of Shakespeare's plays are the worse for being acted." Then Boswell, Scotchman that he was, once more replied with a question:

"What! is nothing gained by acting and decoration?"

"Sir!" replied Dr. Johnson, breathing hard; "Sir!" he thundered, as he brought down his fist with all the energy of his rotund and volcanic personality; "Sir!"-and for once there was a silence-the only silence that is recorded in the life of that masterful personality.

In this brief conversation is raised the chief question which has divided lovers of Shakespeare for three centuries past. Ought his works to be presented upon the stage at all? Strange as it may seem in an actor, I am bound to say that I can understand this attitude of mind, which was shared by many thinkers of past ages. I am not astonished even that such acute and genial critics as Charles Lamb and Wordsworth-that such serious lovers of Shakespeare as Hazlitt and

An address to the Oxford Union Debating Society, delivered May 28th, 1900.

Emerson-held the opinion that the works of our greatest dramatist should not be seen upon the stage. Be that as it may, it is not my intention to enter into an academic discussion with these departed spirits. It will be rather my practical endeavor to show that the public of to-day demands that, if acted at all, Shakespeare shall be presented with all the resources of our time-that he shall be treated, not as a dead author speaking a dead language, but as a living force speaking with the voice of a living humanity. And it will be my

further endeavor to show that in making this demand the public is right.

I am quite aware that in this assertion I am opposed by those who regard Shakespeare as a mere literary legacy, and themselves as his executors, for whose special behest his bones are periodically exhumed in order to gratify a pretty taste for literary pedantry. But great poetry is not written for the few elected of themselves-it must be a living force, or it must be respectfully relegated to the dingy shelves of the great unheard-the little read. Is Shakespeare living, or is he dead? That is the question. Is he to be, or not to be? If he is to be, his being must be of our time-that is to say, we must look at him with the eyes and we must listen to him with the ears of our own generation. And it is surely the greatest tribute to his genius that we should claim his work as belonging no less to our time than to his own. There are those who contend that, in order to appreciate his works, they must only be decked out with the threadbare wardrobe of a bygone time. Let us treat these antiquarians with the re

spect due to another age, but do not let us be deluded by a too diligent study of magazine articles into the belief that we must regard these great plays as interesting specimens for the special delectation of epicures in antiques.

We have, in fact, two contending forces of opinion; on the one side we have that of literary experts, as revealed in print; on the other, we have that of public opinion, as revealed by the coin of the realm. Before I enter upon my justification of the public taste, I shall have to show what the public taste is. Now, there is only one way of arriving at an estimate of the public taste in "things theatric," and that is through the practical experience of those whose business it is to cater for the public. The few experts who arrogate to themselves the right to dictate what the public taste should be are exactly those who ignore what it really is. To their more alluring speculations I shall turn later on; and if, in passing over the ground which has been trodden by these erudite but uninformed writers, I have now and then to sweep aside the cobwebs woven of their fancy, I shall hope to do so with a light hand, serene in the assurance that good and strenuous work will survive the condemnation of a footnote.

Much has been written of late as to the manner in which the plays of Shakespeare should be presented. We are told in this connection that the ideal note to strike is that of "Adequacy." We are assured that we are not to apply to Shakespearean productions the same care, the same reverence for accuracy, the same regard for stage illusion, for mounting, scenery and costume, which we devote to authors of lesser degree; that we should not, in fact, avail ourselves of those adjuncts which in these days science and art place at the manager's right hand; in other words, that we are to produce our national poet's LIVING AGE. VOL. VIII. 420

works without the crowds and armies, without the pride, pomp and circumstance which are suggested in every page of the dramatist's work, and the absence of which Shakespeare himself so frequently laments in his plays. On this subject-rightly or wrongly (but I hope I shall be able to prove to you rightly)—the public has spoken with no hesitating voice; the trend of its taste has undoubtedly been towards putting Shakespeare upon the stage as worthily and as munificently as the manager can afford.

It would be interesting to ascertain how many English playgoers have encouraged this method of producing Shakespeare since Sir Squire Bancroft gave us "The Merchant of Venice" at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, which is my earliest theatrical recollection of the kind; and I do not remember to have seen any Shakespearean presentation more satisfying to my judgment. It was here that Ellen Terry first shed the sunlight of her buoyant and radiant personality on the character of Portia; it was the first production in which the modern spirit of stage-management asserted itself, transporting us, as it did, into the atmosphere of Venice, into the rarefied realms of Shakespearean comedy. Since then, no doubt, millions have flocked to this class of production, when we recall Sir Henry Irving's beautiful Shakespearean presentations from 1874 to 1896; presentations which included "Hamlet," "Macbeth," "Othello," "Much Ado," "King Lear," "Romeo and Juliet," "The Merchant of Venice," "Henry VIII," "Richard III" and "Cymbeline;" and when we remember Miss Mary Anderson's memorable production of "A Winter's Tale" at the same theatre, where the Leontes was Mr. Forbes Robertson, another actor of the modern school (that old school which is eternally new-I might say the right school), not to mention