varnished over with a seraphic smile, takes the
pontifical benediction. I will answer for it that
warrior will pass off his stage, at the end of all,
with grace, decency, and dignity, and histrionically.
In that great hit of his, when just passing
off at the coulisses of the grave, he will not be
unmindful of the unities. Sie vixit! Let him
then murmur becomingly, " Vos plaudite!"

I see him perform again in no more than a
short, simple little scene, not a second in length;
something suddenly improvised not strictly in
the piece, and taking him by surprise, it is
early of that bright festive Easter morning,
and the great pale blue waste—the temple
where we have followed so many scenes—is as
yet thinly tenanted, and stretches away, broad
and unpopulated. Little specks of figures
dot the pavement here and there; and I look
up with strained eyes to one of the little
balconies, or loggie, perched aloft like birdcages,
whence look down a black speck of a
Spanish doña or two upon the tinier specks
flitting below. Here as I wander round and
round, thinking how superbly has Saint Paul's
elder sister dressed herself of this festive morning,
I see the blue and gold soldiers marching
in, and forming two bright glaring lines one on
each side. Not often do they manœuvre on such
parade-ground as that. And I see, too, a
glimmering down at the far end, at the great door,
resolving itself into stars and bejewelled chests,
and glaring jack-boots—in fact, into Goyon the
Magnificent. He will play once more this morning,
and, with the minor actors spread out
behind, makes slow and gorgeous progress up that
glittering avenue. Musically do the muskets
rattle, as the histrionic general is saluted; most
gracefully does he bow and posture to the right
and to the left; he has the whole width of the
stage clear and unimpeded for display; the
double eye-glass works effectively; he falls into
groupings by the aid of a, subsidiary lay figure
who walks a little behind.

Now, there has been standing, all this time,
under the dome, watching the progress, a scarlet
figure in plaid sash and brooches, with plume
bonnet under his arm: an English Highland
colonel. The Highland colonel stands out
conspicuous, cold, supercilious; and, with a
bearded friend, is merry on the foreign
soldiers. Is it not a truth well-established, that
there is no real genuine nobility but English;
and that all your French, and German, and
Italian baronships are pure Brummagem things,
and pinchbeck imitations? So with soldiers.
Highland colonel bursts into rude scoffing laughter
as the foreign muffs defile before him, and,
as it appears to me, defile respectably enough.
Histrionic Goyon comes on slowly, with a sort
of lounging swinging gait, in the direction of
Highland colonel. Highland colonel, just barely
done with the wretched foreign soldiery, finds
himself of a sudden face to face with—in
fact barring the further triumphant progress of
—Goyon the Magnificent. People look round
curiously at this meeting; they think of the
entente cordiale—of the Crimea—nay, of the
common courtesies between soldiers always,
especially between such as are of superior rank.
The gallant comedian who has seen the scarlet of
Albion the perfidious through his double glass,
has worked up a beatific smile of encouragement:
has sniffed from, afar the opportunity for
some splendid stroke of acting. Now, Highland
colonel, I have to blush. Highland colonel
with a scowl of contempt measures the general,
and in an awkward clumsy fashion turns
his back upon the hereditary enemy of his
country. But actor Goyon, how does he take
it? Is he checked, or thrown off his centre? It
becomes his most telling point of that day. He
merely shrugs a protracted shrug to bystanders
—a pitying, commiserating, contemptuous shrug
—which spoke out softly: "My friends, que
voulez-vous?—What would you have?—C'est
un sot, un fat. It is his nature, not his fault.
Have we not seen his kind in Paris the Beautiful?
—and there is a good-natured toleration
for these enfans mal élevés there. Shall we not
have the same? Passons!" There is all this in
the shrug, comprehensive as Lord Burleigh's
head shaking. He has the best of it. I fancy he
is glad on the whole that it fell out so. He takes
his audience with him, and goes off with
immense applause.

There is hung up in some church or palace a
certain commemorative picture which celebrates
the escape of the Santo Padre on the falling
in of a floor in either a chapel or a convent
hall. As to the particulars I am by no means
clear; but I know that the picture was painted
to order, and that the dramatic situation is
happily rendered. There are the Pope and his
ministers and the falling functionaries, and the
dust and the shattered rafters; but what rivets
the eye, to the prejudice of other actors in the
composition, is the figure of the French general,
exposing in his face and gesture the liveliest
and almost abject sense of fear and terror.
The artist, working in the best faith, and with a
view to good dramatic effect, thought he would
thus fittingly convey the danger of the situation,
and so made the general a prey to this
unmanly emotion. It is said that the
ambassador of France accredited to the Holy See
made strong representations, on the part of his
government, against this inglorious apotheosis,
with what result I cannot take on me to say.
The story may be a comic fabrication, a legend
not true, but ben trovato—well found—often
more amusing than truth. Let, us accept it as
it is. For it chimes in admirably with those
other traits of the incomparable actor, Goyon
the Magnificent.