heart with a sudden sense of desolate grief. But the meaning with which this actress freighted the experience of Galatea was productive, for the character, of a power which transcended its charm. That meaning is the hopelessness of an ideal love or an ideal life under such conditions of existence as those which environ the human race. Such a love may be cherished in the heart; such a love may be lived in the mind; but the one can have no fulfilment and the other must be lonely and cold. In other words, the ideal and the actual in human life are confronted, not conjoined. Still more, since experience is inexorably operative and must always bring its consequence, any practical surrender to the ideal is a choice of suffering and perhaps of death. A great love must destroy either itself or the being who feels it. True passion is not a wisp-lightit is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the heart in which it has been enkindled to dust and ashes. There is no creature as lonely as the dweller in the intellect. Those are the truths that Miss Anderson made clear and impressive in her performance of Galatea. In her presentment of "Pygmalion and Galatea❞ she elicited all the thought that is in the play. That irremediable wrench or warp in human nature which seems to have been ever present to the mind of Gilbert-that incongruity, now grotesque and now pitiable, which was constantly visible to him, between goodness and depravity, between loveliness and the debasing

influences of a corrupt world-was steadily manifested. But it remained for Miss Anderson, with her sweeter perception and deeper and gentler insight, to give a broader application to elemental truths. That white marble statue, when all is over, when the play is ended and the heart has ceased to beat,-that crystal image of purity and truth, is not the symbol of sorrow and defeat, but the emblem of a celestial triumph. Life and love are for the frail and fleeting creatures of the common world. No more worship of a shadow! No more dependence on the shallow and fickle heart of man! No more of disappointment, denial, and the weary, wasting, withering sickness of speechless grief! Tears will never dim those glorious eyes, nor sorrow mar again the perfect peace of that heavenly brow. Mortal life was too narrow, too weak and poor for that immortal spirit. The statue is the victor.

It

From the first Miss Anderson's performance of Galatea was, technically, one of her best works. presented, even at the outset, few and trivial blemishes, and those soon disappeared. If viewed simply as dramatic execution, without reference to its deep, interior meaning, it was a delight to the faculty of taste and a joy to the sense of sweet and gentle humor, while to the love of beauty it was a supreme contentment. The perfect Greek dress, the white loveliness of the statue, the eager, radiant face, the subtle suggestion of pain as well as rapture in the process of awakening

from the marble, the grace of movement, the complete repose, the finely modulated action, the honest eyes, the softly musical voice-those attributes and graces might be named among its felicities of exterior and of art. No trace of self-consciousness marred the fresh bloom of the Greek girl's innocence. Truth was in every look and every tone. In reverie she had the sweetly grave manner and the winning, confiding helplessness of a child. Her horror at sight of the dead fawn and her terror at sight of its destroyer were so entirely earnest and seemingly natural that they created a distinct illusion and impressed as much as they amused. Her artlessness and her spontaneous glee, in the comic scene with Chrysos, were expressed with a delicious variety of elocution and made to communicate a rich glow of enjoyment. Her action and her passionate vehemence of supplication that Cynisca will spare Pygmalion wrought a superbly tragic effect. Her pathos in the closing scene had the cruel reality of pain, and was indeed a wonderful simulation of misery-not the trivial pique and perplexity that flow from wounded pride, but the utter woe of a broken heart. Every portion of the texture of her work was, to those ends, animated by a fine intelligence and finished with delicate skill.

Galatea is ideal. Clarice, in "Comedy and Tragedy," is actual. The crucial situation in which Clarice is placed imperatively commands the simultaneous portrayal of a terrific struggle in a woman's heart and of

the exercise of mimetic talents by an accomplished actress. There is but little in the play, aside from that situation. Clarice is a wife, and she and her husband are actors. She has been pursued and persecuted with great insolence by a Regent of France. Her husband has challenged that oppressor, but the challenge has been declined, with contempt: a prince cannot fight with an actor. In their desperate resentment those wronged and infuriated lovers contrive a plot to lure the Regent into their power and compel him to submit to the arbitrament of the sword. The plot succeeds. The two men depart into a garden to fight their duel, in which one must surely die. Clarice, momentarily left alone, is soon the centre of a brilliant throng of guests whom she must entertain. They ask a specimen of her artan illustration of Comedy and Tragedy. Clarice, listening all the while for the sounds of the combat outside, and knowing that perhaps her husband may in a moment fall by the hand of their loathsome enemy, must act the part of a strolling player. That she does, and that is the situation. Transparency was used by Mary Anderson, as Rosalind, with an effect of winning sweetness: as Clarice she used it with an effect of overwhelming tragic power.