and thus not altogether beyond the pale of compassion. And she is, in externals,-in everything visible and audible,—the ideal of grace and melody.

In the presence of an admirable work of art the observer wishes that it were entirely worthy of being performed and that it were entirely clear and sound as to its applicability-in a moral sense, or even in an intellectual sense to human life. Art does not go far when it stops short at the revelation of the felicitous powers of the artist; and it is not morally sound when it tends to beguile sympathy with an unworthy object and perplex a spectator's perceptions as to good and evil. Genevieve Ward's performance of Stephanie, brilliant though it was, did not redeem the character by any intimation of latent goodness. The actress managed, by a scheme of treatment exclusively her own, to make Stephanie, for two or three moments, piteous and forlorn; and her expression of that evanescent anguish-occurring in the appeal to Sir Horace Welby, her friendly foe, in the strong scene of the Second Act-was wonderfully subtle. That appeal, as Genevieve Ward made it, began in artifice, became profoundly sincere, and then was stunned and startled into a recoil of resentment by a harsh rebuff, whereupon it subsided through hysterical levity into frigid and brittle sarcasm and gay defiance. For a while, accordingly, the feelings of the observer were deeply moved. Yet this did not make the character of

Stephanie less detestable. The blight remains upon it -and always must remain-that it repels all human sympathy. The added blight likewise rests upon it, though this is a less vital fault, that it is burdened with moral sophistry. Vicious conduct in a woman, according to Stephanie's logic, is not more culpable or disastrous than vicious conduct in a man: the woman, equally with the man, should have a social license to sow the juvenile wild oats and effect the middle-aged reformation; and it is only because there are gay young men who indulge in profligacy that women sometimes become adventurous moral monsters. All this is launched forth in speeches of singular terseness, eloquence, and vigor; but all this is specious and mischievous perversion of the truth-however admirably in character from Stephanie's lips. Every observer who has looked carefully upon the world is aware that the consequences of sexual sin by a woman are vastly more pernicious than those of sexual sin by a man; that society could not exist in decency, if to its already inconvenient coterie of "reformed" rakes it were to add a legion of "reformed" wantons; and that it is innate wickedness and evil propensity which make such women as Stephanie, and not the mere existence of the wild young men who are willing to become their comradesand who generally end by being their dupes and victims. It is natural, however, that this evil woman-who has kept a gambling-hell and ruined many a man, soul and

body, and who now wishes to reinstate herself in a virtuous social position should thus strive to palliate her past proceedings. Self-justification is one of the first laws of life. Even Iago, who never deceives himself, yet announces one adequate motive for his fearful crimes. Even Bulwer's Margrave-that prodigy of evil, that cardinal type of infernal, joyous, animal depravity can yet paint himself in the light of harmless loveliness and innocent gayety.

"Forget Me Not" tells a thin story, but its story has been made to yield excellent dramatic pictures, splendid moments of intellectual combat, and affecting contrasts of character. The dialogue, particularly in the Second Act, is as strong and as brilliant as polished steel. In that combat of words Genevieve Ward's acting was delicious with trenchant skill and fascinating variety. The easy, good-natured, bantering air with which the strife began, the liquid purity of the tones, the delicate glow of the arch satire, the icy glitter of the thought and purpose beneath the words, the transition into pathos and back again into gay indifference and deadly hostility, the sudden and terrible mood of menace, when at length the crisis had passed and the evil genius had won its temporary victory-all those were in perfect taste and consummate harmony. Seeing that brilliant, supple, relentless, formidable figure, and hearing that incisive, bell-like voice, the spectator was repelled and attracted at the same instant,

and thoroughly bewildered with the sense of a power and beauty as hateful as they were puissant. It was an image of imperial will, made radiant with beauty and electric with flashes of passion. The leopard and the serpent are fatal, terrible, and loathsome; yet they scarcely have a peer among nature's supreme symbols of power and grace. Into the last scene of "Forget Me Not," when at length Stephanie is crushed by physical fear, through beholding, unseen by him, the man who would kill her as a malignant and dangerous reptile, Genevieve Ward introduced such illustrative "business," not provided by the piece, as greatly enhanced the final effect. The backward rush from the door, on seeing the Corsican avenger on the staircase, and therewithal the incidental, involuntary cry of terror, was the invention of the actress: and from that moment to the final exit she was the incarnation of abject fear. The situation is exceptionally strong: the actress invested it with a coloring of pathetic and awful truth.

WILSON BARRETT IN "CLAUDIAN" AND "THE MANXMAN.”

The hero of the drama of "Claudian" is a striking character and one in which an actor can create a lively and diversified impression of power, grace, and pathos, of spiritual exaltation, moral sublimity, and simple heroism. The play is not pure melodrama, but partly poetic tragedy; and, since there is no good reason why poetry should