of those idiots who found homes for dogs, and cemeteries for cats, and that sort of nonsense. But I've done what I thought best." I said I had no doubt of it. "I taught him to read and write and cipher, read the Bible to him, taught him his prayers." The umbrella stirred gently in some ribbon-grass. "I taught him everything, trained him up, beat him." Here came a cut at an oak-twig. "And the end of it all is that the boy hates me,-hates me!"

delirious, what does he talk about? People he thinks about, people he knows. Isn't that true?"

"It may be true sometimes."

"And it's the same with children, What did that boy talk about? Rabbits, and knives, and watches, and his cousin, and his schoolfellows, and you."

'But then, how about algebra and Euclid and Latin, and things he hated?"

"Yes, and never about me, never a word about me, not a single word. I didn't ask them, but do you think I didn't know?"

"Perhaps when you were out of the room

"Nonsense. Here,-you were in the room three hours with him, they tell me. Did he talk about me once?" "I was only there three hours. Perhaps the matron—?”

"Bah!" said the Aunt.

"Of course, it's the middle of his school-time. He would naturally think about his everyday life, the things and people he had seen lately."

"Not in the least. When his father was delirious-bah! the boy never said a word about me, because he never thought about me.”

A puff of wind shivered in the leaves above us, and a little shower

of water rained down. The Aunt took no notice. "I brought a book with me to read to him. Of course he thanked me-had to. Do you suppose he liked it?"

I said I had not a doubt about it. "Not a doubt about it? No. There was none-that was why. What was the first thing he asked you when you came into the room this morning?"

"I don't remember."

"You do. You would not say you You know as

didn't if you did not. well as I do that he asked you to read to him. Didn't he?"

"I believe he did."

"And how long do you suppose I
Two hours,

had been reading to him?
off and on.
woke up--"

I began as soon as he

"Perhaps the book-"

"It was a most interesting book; it was the only book I ever had to read as a child. No," said the Sinner's Aunt, "he didn't like the book, because he didn't like me. He dislikes me, is afraid of me, hates me, thinks me a monster."

Through the trees I caught a glimpse of a white frock and a blue sash.

"Attend to me, if you please," said the Aunt. "That boy doesn't like me, but he likes other people; and they like him, don't they?"

I said that the Sinner was an object of affection to all he met.

"H'm. You think the boy is worth educating?"

"If my judgment is of any value-"

"It's not," said the Sinner's Aunt; "not when you are looking through the trees every minute-do you think I can't see ? Just attend to me, if you please."

"I am all attention," said I.

"Listen to me. I've something to say to you, not about the boy. I've something else to say to you-about

the answer you gave me when I asked you why you were sitting in the verandah. Do you remember, young man?" I acknowledged the fact.

"Well then, I'm going away this morning, and I've seen as much as it is necessary for me to see."

"And that is?"

"I have two cautions to give you, young man. One is, that's a dan gerous young woman."

I beg your pardon?" "And the other is,-you're not the first she's made a fool of."

I bowed, I think. We were standing at the end of the walk, in full view of the house.

"I'll not trouble you to accompany me any further," said the Aunt. "I am returning to the house." She held out her hand stiffly. I bent over it, feeling sorry that I had looked away at the white frock. "Bah!" said the Sinner's Aunt, and stepped majestic

ally towards the house, her skirts held high and her white stockings showing quaintly. But she stopped after may be a dozen yards. "Come here," she said, turning.

I obeyed her.

"How many pictures do you sell in a year?"

I said that it depended upon the gullibility of the British Public. "H'm," said the Aunt. "Paint me two, four, half-a-dozen."

"It would give me great pleasure if you-" "Half

"Bosh!" said the Aunt. a-dozen, large ones."

I murmured something about the probable cost.

"Don't bother me with the cost. Send the bill into my lawyer. Don't send it to me; if you do I won't pay it."

I attempted to express my thanks. "Bah!" said the Sinner's Aunt.

I HAVE been asked to give some opinion on various subjects relating to my art and more particularly on the question as to whether I should advise a young woman to dedicate herself to it. I will not believe that such a question is put to me with any doubt as to the dramatic art being most noble, and I should be sorry for any one so wanting in intelligence and culture as to entertain such a doubt. The philosophy of Descartes did indeed in its time renew the charge of Plato that among the arts, which were all wicked, save only music, the dramatic was essentially the most wicked. Louis the Fourteenth, troubled by those doctrines which appeared new among the disciples of Descartes and were worn out among Platonists, asked Bossuet whether a true Catholic could frequent the theatres with a quiet conscience. "There are grave doubts to the contrary, and many examples in favour of the theory," replied the great prelate. To the more recent accusation that it is an art of an inferior order, I should not even think of answering. Hence, with no further notice of this very unimportant criticism, I pass on to a thing which, though so well known, it is in these days essential to repeat: "For the production of art, before all else, the artist is needed." No art is more beneficent, more honourable than the dramatic if a young woman take to it for pure love of it and for no other reason. Next to the pulpit nothing is more productive of good than the stage, if it be understood as the Talmas, the

Modenas, the

Siddonses, and other great actors great actors have understood it. Other, quite other are the reasons for regret with regard to this art. Teachers are wanting, and, what is even worse, good sense.

Why should the vocation of a young woman be called in question if she possess the requisites for succeeding in this art? ceeding in this art? Ah, if the world would only see the foundations that Nature lays! But the foundations are not not enough, the young must also entrust themselves to a guide; good seed is not sufficient,a good tiller is also needed. Certainly genius is a school in itself, but geniuses are not born every day, and fine intelligence may easily go astray if not properly directed. The best disposition may be spoiled by bad training. How many could I name who have been ruined by false teaching! It is no question of founding academies or schools of acting in which most part of the time the true teacher or, to say better, the teacher of the true is the very thing lacking; it is a question of not entrusting oneself to a false school. At one time there was so much declaiming on the stage; now there is an exaggeration in the opposite direction, and a colourless way of acting and of manifesting the feelings is held to be true.

I cannot say that I am an advocate for academies so far as dramatic art goes. How many examples have we not of the small need of these institutions for one who has an inborn vocation for the stage, and contains within himself the germs of dramatic art! If he is without these, no teach

ing could instil them into him. Perhaps the little interest I have always felt in academies arises from my having seen many great actors become such without the least need of academic rules. I cite England as a first example of what I say. From the sixteenth century downwards have academies, or schools of declamation, ever existed in that country? And yet what a group of dramatic celebrities has she produced, exciting the emulation of other nations? The first great actors were inspired solely by the impressions they received from the genius of Shakespeare, and from his creations they drew their stagemodels. By this school many celebrated artists, such as Garrick, Kean, and Mrs. Siddons were greatly inspired, and they have left not only true models but also rules for studying the interpretation of the characters they had in mind to embody.

Neither in Austria nor in Germany exists an academy on the artistic basis of the one in Paris; the only object of the German academies is to teach music in all its expressions. In Italy there have never been academies or schools of acting; nevertheless how many great actors have made my beautiful country famous even in remote times. Where there is real dramatic talent great actors are not the product of academies. Do not let it be supposed that I deny the benefit of a good training in elocution, and in the physical graces of deportment, movement, gesture (in expression and in reticence) which the stage demands. These are of great importance for they are the grammar of our dramatic utterances; and for lack of them many a young actor (may I say more especially among English and American ones?) are launched upon the stage but half equipped to meet the difficulties they have to encounter. In some cases, even a really fine actor

never rids himself of bad habits and tricks thus unconsciously acquired. In any case some of the precious years of youth on the stage must be lost for want of a directing hand in the preparatory period.

Whosoever resolves to devote himself to the dramatic art must set about it by studying characters of action rather than those purely of declamation. This should be the first aim of an actor who desires to raise himself to eminence. He must give the precedence to action rather than to oratory because the former requires greater talent than the latter. When the words expressed are in contrast with the condition of the mind he must make this understood to the public by the workings of his face and by the accent of his voice, until the discordance between the word and the truth becomes evident to the spectator. Diction is the actor's brush; without it he can give no colour to his acting.

Nature is varied; the physiognomy of every country differs from that of another as do its expressions, its manners, its institutions; or, allowing that all have feelings more or less uniform, this conformity varies exceedingly in its manifestations.

Dramatic teachings may be of general application as to æsthetics, but not as to dispositions and manifestations. Every nature has its own special character in expression, in intonation, and in movements; therefore it is impossible for one nation to serve as a basis for another in education for the stage. For instance, the character of the Latin race manifests itself by a vivacity remarkable in movement and expression, while in the Northern races, notable for their reserve of manner, the expression of feeling is entirely different.

Other fundamental rules are, the teaching of good carriage and attitudes, of correct diction, and of