the same time her mouth was stopped. She would not confuse her father, nor betray him. It was chiefly from this bewildering sensation, and not, as her father, suddenly grown acute in respect to Frances, thought, from a mortifying conscious. ness that Constance would speak with more freedom if she were not there, that Frances spoke. "I think," she said, "that I had better go and see about the rooms. Mariuccia will not know what to do till I come; and you will take care of Constance, papa." He looked at her, hearing in her tone a wounded feeling, a touch of forlorn pride, which perhaps were there, but not so much as he thought; but it was Constance that replied: "O yes; we will take care of each other. I have so much to tell him," with a laugh. Frances was aware that there was relief in it, in the prospect of her own absence; but she did not feel it so strongly as her father did. She gave them both a smile, and went away. "So that is Frances," said the newfound sister, looking after her. "I find her very like mamma. But everybody says I am your child, disposition and all." She rose, and came up to Waring, who had never lessened the distance between himself and her. She put her hand into his arm and held up her face to him. "I am like you. I shall be much happier with you. Do you think you will like having me instead of Frances, father?" She clasped his arm against her in a caressing way, and leaned her cheek upon the sleeve of his velvet coat. "Don't you think you would like to have me, father, instead of her?" she said. A whole panorama of the situation, like a landscape, suddenly flashed before Waring's mind. The spell of this caress, and confidence she showed of being loved, which is so great a charm, and the impulse of nature, so much as that is worth, drew him towards the handsome girl, who took possession of him and his affections without a doubt, and pushed away the other from his heart and his side with an impulse which his philosophy said was common to all men or at least, if that was too sweeping, to all women. But in the same moment came that sense of championship and proprietorship, the one inextricably mingled with the other, which makes us all defend our own, whenever assailed. Frances was his own; she was his creation; he had taught her almost everything. Poor little Frances! Not like this girl, who could speak for herself, who could go everywhere, half commanding, half taking with guile every heart that she encountered. Frances would never do that. But she would be true, true as the heavens themselves, and never falter.. By a sudden gleam of perception he saw that though he had never told her any thing of this, though it must have been a revelation of wonder to her, yet that she had not burst forth into any outcries of astonishment, or asked any compromising questions, or done anything to betray him. His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He had not been a doting father to her; he had even - being himself what the world calls a clever man, much above her mental level - felt himself to condescend a little, and almost upbraided heaven for giving him so ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to see, was a brilliant creature, accustomed to take her place in the world, fit to be any man's companion. But the first result of this revelation was to reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the modest and true little soul which had developed by his side without much notice from him, whom he had treated with such cruel want of confidence, to whom the shock of this evening's disclosures must have been so great, but who, even in the moment of discovery, shielded him. All this went through his mind with the ut most rapidity. He did not put his newfound child away from him; but there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in the kiss he gave her. "I am very glad to have you here, my dear," he said, more coldly than pleased her. "But why instead of Frances? You will be happier both of you for being together." Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of disappointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished her father's arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned to her chair. "I shall like it, as long as it is possible," she said. "It will be very nice for me having a father and sister, instead of a mother and brother. But you will find that mamma will not let you off. She likes to have a girl in the house. She will have her pound of flesh." She threw herself back into her chair with a laugh. "How quaint it is here; and how beautiful the view must be, and the mountains and the sea! I shall be very happy here - the world forgetting, by the world forgot and with you, papa.' From Blackwood's Magazine. tain of tears has never been stirred within ON SOME OF SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE her. To pain of heart she has been a stranger. She has not learned tenderness or toleration under the discipline of suf CHARACTERS: BEATRICE. DEAR MR. RUSKIN, "There was a star danced, and under that was I born." fering or disappointment, of unsatisfied yearning or failure. Her life has been a summer mood, To which all pleasant things have come unsought, I am glad to see by your letter that Beatrice is a favorite with you. The her esy of Campbell and others, that describes her as a compound of tomboy, flirt, and shrew, "an odious woman," I think, Campbell calls her, has manifestly not enlisted you among its adherents. Whilst, therefore, I am sure of your sympathy in trying to put into words the conception of this brilliant and charming woman which I endeavored to embody on the stage, still I must approach the subject with great trepidation, as you tell me that you are "listening with all your heart to what I shall say of her." I cannot dare to hope that I shall throw much light upon the character that will be new to you, who have shown, in so many places, how thorough has been your study of Shakespeare's heroines, and with what loving insight you have used them to illustrate the part women have played, and are meant to play, in bringing sweetness and comfort, and help and moral strength, into man's troubled and perplexing life. The lesson Shakespeare teaches seems to me to be entirely in accordance with your own belief, expressed in many ways, "that no man ever lived a right life who had not been chastened by a woman's love, strengthened by her courage, and guided by her discretion." Of Beatrice I cannot write with the same full heart, or with the same glow of sympathy, with which I wrote of Rosalind. Her character is not to me so engaging. We might hope to meet in life something to remind us of Beatrice; but in our dreams of fair women Rosalind stands out alone. Neither are the circumstances under which Beatrice comes before us of a kind to draw us so closely to her. Unlike Rosalind, her life has been and is, while we see her, one of pure sunshine. Sorrow and wrong have not softened her nature, nor taken off the keen edge of her wit. When we are introduced to her, she is the great lady, bright, brilliant, beautiful, enforcing admiration as she moves "in maiden meditation fancy free" among the fine ladies and accomplished gallants of her circle. Up to this time there has been no call upon the deeper and finer qualities of her nature. The sacred foun and across which the shadows of care or sorrow have never passed. She has a quick eye to see what is weak or ludicrous in man or woman. The impulse to speak out the smart and poignant things that rise readily and swiftly to her lips, is irresistible. She does not mean to inflict pain, though others besides Benedick must at times have felt that "every word stabs." She simply rejoices in the keen sword-play of her wit as she would in any other exercise of her intellect or sport of her fancy. In very gaiety of heart she flashes around her the playful lightning of sarcasm and repartee, thinking of them only as something to make the time pass brightly by. "I was born," she says of herself, "to speak all mirth and no matAgain, when Don Pedro tells her she has "a merry heart," she answers, "Yea, my lord, I thank it; poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care." And what does her uncle Leonato say of her? ter." Wooers she has had, of course, not a few; but she has "mocked them all out of suit." Very dear to her is the independence of her maidenhood, — for the mo ment has not come when to surrender that independence into a lover's hands is more delightful than to maintain it. But though in the early scenes of the play she makes a mock of wooers and of marriage, with obvious zest and with a brilliancy of fancy and pungency of sarcasm that might well appal any ordinary wooer, it is my conviction that, though her heart has not as yet been touched, she has at any rate begun to see in "Signor Benedick of Padua" qualities which have caught her fancy. She has noted him closely, and his image recurs unbidden to her mind with a frequency which suggests that he is at least more to her than any other man. The train is laid, and only requires a spark to kindle it into flame. How this is done by Shakespeare, and with what exquisite skill, will be more and more felt the more closely the structure of the play and the distinctive qualities of the actors in it are studied. time proving to her, what she was previ ously quite prepared to "believe better than reportingly," that he was of a truly "noble strain," and that she might safely intrust her happiness to his hands! Viewed in this light, the play seems to me to be a masterpiece of construction, developed with consummate skill, and held together by the unflagging interest which we feel in Beatrice and Benedick, and in the progress of the amusing plot by which they arrive at a knowledge of their own hearts. I think, indeed, this play should rank, in point of dramatic construction and development of character, with the best of Shakespeare's works. It has the further distinction, that whatever is most valuable in the plot is due solely to his own invention. In this respect it differs signally from "As You Like It." In "The Tale of Gamelyn,” and more particularly in Lodge's "Rosalynde," Shakespeare found I was called upon very early in my ca ready to his hand the main plot of that reer to impersonate Beatrice, but I must play, and suggestions for several of the frankly admit that, while, as I have said, I characters. With his usual wonderful could not but admire her, she had not aptitude, he assimilated everything that taken hold of my heart as my other herocould be turned to dramatic account. Yet ines had done. Indeed there is nothing his debt was, after all, of no great amount. of the heroine about her, nothing of roHe had to discard far more than he mance or of poetic suggestion in the ciradopted. The story with the actors in it cumstances of her life - nothing, in short, became a new creation; and by infusing to captivate the imagination of a very into a pretty but tedious pastoral and some young girl, such as I then was. It was very unreal characters a purpose and a no small surprise to me when Mr. Charles life which were exclusively his own, he Kemble, who was playing a series of faretransmuted mere pebbles into gems. But well performances at Covent Garden, neither for plot nor character was he in- where I had made my début on the stage debted to any one in "Much Ado About but a few months before, singled me out Nothing." It is, no doubt, true that in to play Beatrice to his Benedick, on the Ariosto and Bandello, and in our own night when he bade adieu to his profesSpenser, he found the incident of an inno- sion. That I, who had hitherto acted cent lady brought under cruellest suspi- only the young tragic heroines, was to cion by the base device of which Hero is be thus transported out of my natural the victim. Here, however, his obligation sphere into the strange world of high ends; and but for the skill with which this comedy, was a surprise indeed. To conincident is interwoven with others, and a sent seemed to me nothing short of prenumber of characters brought upon the sumption. I urged upon Mr. Kemble how scene, which are wholly of his own creat- utterly unqualified I was for such a vening, it would be of little value for dramatic ture. His answer was, "I have watched purposes. you in the second act of Julia in The How happy was the introduction of such Hunchback,' and I know that you will bymen as Dogberry dear, delightful Dog and-by be able to act Shakespeare's comberry! — and his band, “the shallow fools edy. I do not mean 'now,' because more who brought to light" the flimsy villany years, greater practice, greater confidence by which Don Pedro and Claudio had in yourself, must come before you will allowed themselves to be egregiously be- have sufficient ease. But do not be afraid. fooled! How true to the irony of life was I am too much your friend to ask you to the accident, due also to Shakespeare's do anything that would be likely to prove invention, of Leonato's being too much a failure." This he followed up by offerbored by their tedious prate, and too busy ing to teach me "the business" of the with the thought of his daughter's ap. scene. What could I do? He had, from proaching marriage, to listen to them, and my earliest rehearsals, been uniformly thus not hearing what would have pre- kind, helpful, and encouraging vented the all but tragic scene in which could I say him nay? My friends too, that marriage is broken off! And how who of course acted for me, as I was much happier than all is the way in which the wrong done to Hero is the means of bringing into view the fine and generous elements of Beatrice's nature, of showing Benedick how much more there was in her than he had thought, and at the same - how under age, considered that I must con sent. I was amazed at some of the odd things I had to say, not at all from knowing their meaning, but simply because I did not even surmise it. My dear home instructor, of whom I have often spoken in these letters, said, "My child, | Beatrice all in tears! What shall I do to you will do this very well. Only give way to natural joyousness. Have no fear. Let yourself go free; you cannot be vulgar, if you tried ever so hard." And so the performance came, and went off more easily than I had imagined, -as so many dreaded events of our lives do pass away, without any of the terrible things happening which we have torment ed ourselves by anticipating. The night was one not readily to be forgotten. The excitement of having to act a character so different from any I had hitherto at tempted, and the anxiety natural to the effort, filled my mind entirely. I had no idea of the scene which was to follow the close of the comedy, so that it came upon me quite unexpectedly. comfort her! What can I give her in remembrance of her first Benedick?" I sobbed out, "Give me the book you studied Benedick from." He answered, “You shall have it, and many others!" He kept his word, and I have still two small volumes in which are collected many of the plays in which he acted, and also some in which his daughter, Fanny Kemble, who was then married and living in America, had acted. These came with a charming letter on the title-page addressed to his "dear little friend." He also told my mother to bring me to him, if at any time she thought his advice might be valuable; and on several occasions afterwards he took the trouble of reading over new parts with me, and giving me his advice and help. One thing which he impressed upon me I never forgot. It was, on no account to give promi emotion. Let the expression be genuine, earnest, but not ugly. He pointed out to me how easy it was to simulate distortions, to writhe, for example, from the supposed effect of poison, to gasp, to roll the eyes, etc. These were melodramatic effects. But if pain or death had to be simulated, or any sudden or violent shock, let them be shown, he said, in their mental rather than in their physical signs. The picture presented might be as sombre as the darkest Rembrandt; but it must be noble in its outlines, truthful, picturesque, but never repulsive, mean, or commonplace. It must suggest the heroic, the divine in human nature, and not the mere everyday struggles or tortures of this life, whether in joy or sorrow, despair or hopeless grief. Under every circumstance the graceful, the ideal, the beautiful, should be given side by side with the real. The "farewell" of a great actor to the arena of his triumphs was something my imagination had never pictured, and all at once it was brought most impressively be-nence to the physical aspect of any painful fore me, touching a deep, sad minor chord in my young life. It moved me deeply. As I write, the exciting scene comes vividly before me, the crowded stage, the pressing forward of all who had been Mr. Kemble's comrades and contemporaries, -the good wishes, the farewells given, the tearful voices, the wet eyes, the curtain raised again and again. Ab, how can any one support such a trial? I determined in that moment that, when my time came to leave the stage, I would not leave it in this way. My heart could never have borne such a strain. I need not say that this resolve has remained unchanged. I could not have expected such a demonstrative farewell; but, whatever it might have been, the certainty that it is the last time one does anything is, I think, well kept from us. I see now the actors in the play asking for a remembrance of the night, gloves, handkerchiefs, feathers, one by one taken from the hat, then the I have always felt what a happy cir hat itself, — all, in short, that could be cumstance it was for a shy and sensi ve severed from the dress. I, whose claim temperament like mine, that my first steps was as nothing compared to that of oth in my art should have been guided and ers, stood aside, greatly moved and sor- encouraged by a nature so generous and rowful, weeping on my mother's shoulder, sympathetic as Mr. Kemble's. He made when, as the exciting scene was at last me feel that I was in the right road to drawing to a close, Mr. Kemble saw me, success, and gave me courage by speakand exclaimed, "What! My Lady babying warmly of my natural gifts of voice, I must explain that "baby" was the name by which Mr. Kemble always called me. cannot tell why, unless it were because of the contrast he found between his own wide knowledge of the world and of art, and my innocent ignorance and youth. Delicate health had kept me in a quiet home, which I only left at intervals for a quieter life by the seaside, so that I knew far less of the world and its ways than even most girls of my age. etc., and praising my desire to study and improve, and my readiness in seizing his meaning and profiting by his suggestions. How different it was when, shortly afterwards, I came under Mr. Macready's influence! Equally great in their art, nature had cast the men in entirely different moulds. Each helped me, but by proc esses wholly unlike. The one, while pointing out what was wrong, brought the balm of encouragement and hope; the other, like the surgeon who "cuts beyond the wound to make the cure more certain," was merciless to the feelings, where he thought a fault or a defect might so best be pruned away. Both were my true friends, and were most kind to me, each in his own way of showing kindness. Yet it was well for my self-distrustful nature that the gentler kindness came first. Mr. Kemble never lost an opportunity of making you happy. When Joanna Baillie's play, "The Separation," was pro. duced within two months of my first ap. pearance, I had, in the heroine Margaret, a very difficult part quite unlike any I had previously acted or even studied. The story turns upon a wife's hearing that before their marriage her husband had murdered her brother. The play opens with the wife learning the terrible truth, just as the tidings reach her that her husband has returned safely from battle, and is close at hand. Of course "the separation ensues. It must have been a great trouble to Mr. Kemble, who played Garcio, the husband, to study a new part at that period of his career, and I wonder that he undertook it. You may imagine how nervous and anxious I was at attempt ing the leading character in a play never before acted, and one, moreover, with which I had little sympathy. During the first performance Mr. Kemble also ap. peared very nervous, and at times seemed at a loss for his words. He was deaf, too, not very deaf, but sufficiently so to make the prompter's voice of no use to him. Happily I was able on several occasions, being close to him, to whisper the words. How I knew them I can hardly tell, because we had not copies of the play to study from, but only our own manuscript parts. But I had heard him repeat them at rehearsal, and they had fixed themselves in my memory. Naturally I thought nothing of this at the time. The next morning, when we met upon the stage to make some little changes in the play, Mr. Kemble spoke openly of the help I had been to him, making very much more of it than it deserved, and, above all, marvelling at the self-command of the little novice, coming with so much readiness to support an old actor, who should have been on the lookout to do that office for her. I was much ashamed to be praised for so small a thing. But how quietly glad was the little mouse when she found that she had helped ever so slightly, her good friend the noble lion! * Mr. Kemble seemed to my eyes before everything pre-eminently a gentleman. And this told, as it always must tell, when he enacted ideal characters. There was a natural grace and dignity in his bearing, a courtesy and unstudied deference of manner in approaching and addressing women, whether in private society or on the stage, which I have scarcely seen equalled. Perhaps it was not quite as rare in his day as it is now. What a lover he must have made! What a Romeo! What an Orlando! I got glimpses of what these must have been in the readings which Mr. Kemble gave after he left the stage, and which I attended diligently, with heart and brain awake to profit by what I heard. How fine was his Mercu tio! What brilliancy, what ease, what spontaneous flow of fancy in the Queen Mab speech! The very start of it was suggestive "Oh, then, I see Queen Mab" (with an emphasis on "Mab") "hath been with you!" How exquisite was the play of it all, image rising up after image, and crowding one upon another, each new one more fanciful than the last! "Thou talk'st of nothing," says Romeo; but oh, what nothings! As picture after picture was brought before you by Mr. Kemble's skill, with the just emphasis thrown on every word, yet all spoken "trippingly on the tongue," what objects that one might see or touch could be more real? I was disappointed in his reading of Juliet, Desdemona, etc. His heroines were spiritless, tearful creatures, too merely tender, without distinction or individuality, all except Lady Macbeth, into whom I could not help thinking some of the spirit of his great sister, Mrs. Siddons, was transfused. But, in truth, I cannot think it possible for any man's nature to simulate a woman's, or vice I shall never forget my surprise, when one day, during the run of "Separation," on going into the Soho spot of interest for me - I saw myself in a doll, labelled Bazaar, and coming to the doll-stalla not-forgotten Miss Helen Faucit as the Lady Margaret in 'Separation."" Such things were very unusual then, and I dress was exactly mine- copied most accurately. I felt just a little not proud, but happy. The doll's am sure, had I not thought it vain, I should have liked to buy my doll-self. But again, perhaps my funds might not have allowed it, and I felt too shy to ask the price: it was a grandly got up lady, and although my salary was the largest ever given in those days, I was, as a minor, only allowed by my friends a slight increase to the pocket money which had been mine before. Happily for me, both then and since, money has ever been a matter of slight importance in my regard. Success in my art, and the preservation of the freshness and freedom of spirit which are essential to true distinction, were always my first thought. |