action. These, to be seen and understood
at a distance, must be large and obvious,
yet there must be subtlety and refinement
about them as well. Then he must move
the hands evenly and gracefully, but at
the same time unaffectedly and naturally;
above all, he must be able not to move at
all, but to keep quite still when he ought to
do so, which—compassed about with such
a network of nerves of motion as we are—
is not always so easy as it seems.

Invariably, too, retaining his self-possession,
and considering how to make his words
tell upon his audience when he comes to
an important speech, he takes care to be in
the right place—whence he can be both seen
and heard well at the time of delivering it.
Nor does he suffer any important part of
his dialogue to be lost, owing to its being
spoken at a time when circumstances
prevent its being properly heard.

The acquirements here set down are but
a few of those which the Doer, who is
worthy of the name, takes care to make
his own. They are rudimentary, and, once
mastered, are merely regarded by the
professional artist as a kind of foundation, or
groundwork, on which to engraft all sorts
of graces and refinements.

Nor is it only with what he has to
cultivate that the practical artist occupies
himself. He must think besides of what
is to be avoided. There are all sorts
of awkward stupid habits into which
humanity is liable to fall when it finds
itself with a row of footlights in front of
it, and a mass of upturned human faces
beyond. Under such circumstances a
man's eyes will, unless he be very careful,
play him false and mislead him.
He will look up, or he will look down, not
straight at the people he is addressing,
whether they are actually on the stage with
him, or the public in the body of the house.
That mass of faces is a formidable thing to
confront, and the craven suggestion of a
man's weak nature disposes him to turn his
back upon the audience more than is
convenient, and to skulk at the rear of the
stage, or get awkwardly behind any sheltering
piece of furniture which may be placed
conveniently for the purpose.

Let the Talker who deals so severely
with this particular kind of Doer—whether
by comparing him disparagingly with the
Doer of a former age, or with his own often
most erroneous standard of what ought to
be—consider what the labour and study
must be which enable the professional actor
to master all these constituent parts, great
and small, of his business.

Altogether there does not seem to be
much ground for all this depreciation of
the stage of our day, which we hear from
the Talker of the old-school as of the new.
That there is observable, in connexion with
the art of the theatre as with that of the
studio, a change in the manner of its
development there can be no doubt; but
change does not necessarily involve
deterioration. Our school of acting is in a
state of transition. We are discarding the
conventional in this as in other things, and
cultivating the natural. A school of acting
has sprung up of late years which is
characterised by a specially close adherence to
nature, a respect for probability, and a
truthfulness of detail, which, accompanied
as it is by an abandonment of old
established conventionalities, is of high promise.
We surely see now, in certain individual
cases which it would be invidious to name,
more elaborate study of character and more
exhibition of individuality than we used to
see. The standard set up is much more a
standard of nature and much less a standard
of art than was ever the case before. We
think less of elocutionary display and of
the "grand manner" and of declamatory
power, than we did formerly; we think
more of a closeness to nature and a careful
reproduction of the more subtle expressions
of feeling.

Surely these are hopeful indications, and
such as may be safely quoted by all who
have it at heart to confute the lachrymose
theories of those members of the Talking
Fraternity who denounce all modern schools
of art, of whatsoever kind, and who raise
the one monotonous parrot cry of "Ichabod"
over every one of them.

IN GOD'S ACRE.

'TWAS on a Morn of Summer
     In the kirkyard lone,
An old man, hoary headed,
     Sat upon a stone,
And thought of days departed,
   And griefs that he had known.

His long white hair was wafted
   On the wandering breeze;
A bonnie little maiden
   Frolicked at his knees,
And twined fair flowers with rushes,
   Gathered on the leas.

Over her pleasant labour
   She crooned her infant song;
I said with self-communing,
   "Death shall not tarry long,
For the old old fruit hath ripened,
   And the young fruit groweth strong;''

Alas! for the To-morrow,
   That recks not of To-day!
Fate, like a serpent crawling,
   Unnoticed, on its prey,
Came as a burning fever,
   And snatched the babe away.