by a wolf. With them the vampire and the
were-wolf are in close connexion, if not identical;
at all events, they are called by the same name,
"vloslak." These creatures rage chiefly in
winter, when they have their annual assemblies;
at which each vloslak strips off his wolf-skin,
and hangs it up on the trees around—the
meetings naturally taking place in the forest.
If any one gets possession of that skin and
burns it, the vloslak is disenchanted, and his
were-wolfism is at an end.

The Greek were-wolf, or brucolacas, is also
closely related to the vampire; and the "modern
Greeks call any savage-looking man with dark
complexion, and with distorted misshapen limbs,
a brucolacas, and suppose him to be invested
with the power of running in wolf-form." The
white Russians hold the were-wolf to be a man
who has incurred the wrath of the devil, whereby,
in punishment, he is transformed into a
wolf and sent among his relations, "who recognise
and feed him well. He is a most amiably
disposed were-wolf, for he does no mischief, and
testifies his affection for his kindred by licking
their hands." But he is very restless, and
always roving about from place to place; and
we are not told if he ever recovers his human
likeness.

These and many such little odds and ends of
information on the subject of were-wolves and
their kindred, are to be found in Mr. Baring
Gould's book; by which we may learn how the
superstition first sprung up and then grew
strong; and how perilously near to wolves and
other beasts, can evil passions, neglected education,
and defective organisation, bring humanity.

HOLDING UP THE CRACKED MIRROR.

A GOOD many of us have recently been
celebrating the three hundred and second birthday
of our great national dramatic poet, William
Shakespeare. At various festivals in town and
country we drank to his memory in solemn
silence, gave cheers for his glorious fame, and
made speeches in praise of his genius. We said
that he was not for an age but for all time,
that none but himself could be his parallel, that
his works were the most ennobling works that
ever were written, and that the man himself,
though dead and turned to clay long, long ago,
still lived in the hearts and memories of all
lovers of the British drama. And may the
British drama flourish, we said, with a hip, hip,
hurrah! and one cheer more for the great
British dramatist, who had been an exemplar to
all British dramatists up to the present time, and
would be an exemplar to all British dramatists
through generations yet unborn, while the
English language continued to be spoken, and
until the great globe itself should dissolve,
&c., &c., &c.

It is wonderful how enthusiastic we become
over a topic of this kind at the dinner-table,
how firmly we believe in all the lofty sentiments
inspired by the theme—and the wine. We
rave in the same way about Magna Charta;
declare that it is our proudest boast, the bulwark
of our constitution, the ægis of our liberties, and
all that sort of thing; and not ten in a hundred of
us, if we were catechised on the subject, would be
able to say precisely what Magna Charta is, or
how our rights and liberties are affected by it.
In this way a name, or a sentence of speech,
becomes a watchword and an article of faith with
us, when sometimes the actual thing to which it
refers has no existence. It is quite impossible
that any man in his sober senses could speak
with enthusiasm of Magna Charta, because at
this time of day there is really nothing in that
crumpled bit of parchment that any one but a
lawyer or a statesman could directly connect
with our present condition of existence. So we
should find it very hard to speak with enthusiasm
of the present state of the British drama,
if we would only approach the subject with a
full knowledge of its condition, and in a state
of mind and tongue to talk sober reason. It
appears to me that we never venture to talk
about the British drama until we have had a few
glasses of champagne. Let us see what can be
said about it with the stimulus of a cheering
but not inebriating cup of tea.

On that very day when we were celebrating
the birth of our great national dramatist, and
talking with glowing enthusiasm of the British
drama, only one theatre in London was doing
homage to Shakespeare's genius by performing
his works, while the majority of the dramas
then being played in our British theatres, in
town and country, were not British, but were
translations, or adaptations, from the French,
dramatic pictures of a state of society and a
condition of morality which are very far from
being British, and with which British feeling
has no natural sympathy.

No stress need be laid upon the fact that
only one London theatre presented a play of
Shakespeare's on the last anniversary of the
bard's birthday. We cannot always be going
to see Shakespeare, and perhaps, on the whole,
we pay him as much homage, in the way of
performing his plays, as could reasonably be
expected. But how is it, with all our admiration
of Shakespeare (which is undoubtedly
genuine), with such a model of power and
consummate art to testify to the dramatic ability of
England, and teach us what is good and
worthy to be admired,—how is it that we can
tolerate the weak, colourless, distorted pictures
of perverted nature which are held up to us in
second-hand mirrors imported from France?

Is the true answer to the question this?
The drama of our day is becoming less and
less a high art, and in proportion as it has
lowered its pretensions in this respect, the
people, who have been steadily advancing in
intelligence and culture, have become indifferent
to it. The dramatic art has fallen behind in the
race, among the other arts—so far behind that
we do not expect it ever to come to the front
again, and so we tolerate it, rather in pity than
in anger, out of our old love for what it was.