the desire to sec some new picture on the
stage and a conviction that the coming treat
is delayed by the verbosity of two or three
performers. When no picture was expected, but
talk was merely to be followed by other talk,
this cause of impatience did not exist. The
matter delivered in language, and the manner
of its delivery, constituted tne entire entertainment,
and the only claimants for public favour
were the poet and his actors. Let us observe,
too, that this primitive state of things was
as favourable to the growth of the
actor's art as to that of dramatic poetry. The
homely substitute was quite enough to
mark the local position of the performers in
every situation, and to enable these to go
through all the external bodily movements
necessary to express emotion and carry on the
business of the story. Will such a state of
the drama ever arise again? If it does, it will
rather develop itself from the "readings" of the
present day, than be restored to the ordinary
theatre. A popular "reader" can command
the attention of the multitude without the aid
of even the humblest accessories; whereas to
the modern notion of a theatre illusion, or an
attempt at illusion, seems absolutely essential.

But if I am uncertain with regard to the
future, I must confess that I am not
altogether satisfied with regard to the past. I
am not convinced that dramatic representation
remained in this primitive state at every
London theatre from the day when the
earliest playhouse was first opened under the
reign of Elizabeth, till two years before the
death of Charles the First. In anything like
detailed knowledge as to the manner in which
those theatres were conducted we are lamentably
deficient, and it is quite possible that a system
was retained at one theatre after it had been
abandoned by another. With all reverence for
the accepted theory, I am greatly puzzled by
a passage in the prologue to Richard Brome's
Count Beggen, which was acted in 1632. The
poet, speaKing in his own person, says
                                  No gaudy scene
       Shall give instruction what the plot doth mean;
and while I acknowledge that I am indebted
to Mr. J. P. Collier's History of the English
Stage for my familiarity with the passage, I
must also confess that to me it seems more
important than it does to that distinguished
antiquary. In the first place, it shows that the
word "scene," as denoting a material object,
and not the mere subdivision of an act, was
familiar to a public who could scarcely have
witnessed the court masques. In the second
place, this scene threw lignt on the meaning of
the plot. I may be answered by reference to a
fact which I have not yet touched upon, that in
the primitive state of the English drama a board
or placard was set up, on which was indicated
the place at which the action was supposed to
occur. Thus, the word "Denmark" would
greet the eyes of the audience during the
performance of Hamlet. On the basis of this fact
I shall be told that such a placard might have
been affixed to a gaudy curtain, and that this
might have been denoted by Brome's prologue.
But a gaudy curtain with a placard in the
middle of it must have been, at best, but a
humble spectacle, and Brome's boast, that he
could get on without such expedient, must have
sounded very oddly. The words seem exactly
such as would be spoken by a poet who wished
to state that his play would be found perfectly
intelligible and satisfactory without the aid of
gaudy scenic accessories. They likewise seem
addressed to an audience to whom such
accessories were familiar. That Brome thinks it is a
merit not to use this gaudy scene is clear
enough; but he might object to the gaudiness
of the picture, not to its existence, and refer to
a state of the stage in which the effect of
accessories was beginning to eclipse that of poetry
and histrionic art.

A MERE SCRATCH.

IN EIGHT CHAPTERS. CHAPTER V.

THE day was very young indeed when pretty
Esther, bright and fresh as the morn herself,
stole out of her little chamber, and, thanks to
instructions received overnight, made her way
out into the beautiful gardens for which Gosling
Graize had long been renowned. She was to
leave at eight, before which hour Sir George
seldom quitted his room, and thus the young
lady calculated that she might enjoy a ramble in
the gardens, if not a short run in the woods,
without attracting the notice of her host.

But she reckoned without that host.

She tripped gaily on, across the lawns, up
one walk, down another, trying to lose her way
in that, to her, enchanted labyrinth, and almost
dancing in the buoyancy of spirit which a fair
morning, lighting up lovely tilings, commonly
brings to the young. For a moment she sat
down on a rustic seat, now she peeped into an
arbour, now lingered beside a crystal spring,
and caught the liquid diamonds as they glittered
forth. Passing up a path shaded with laurel
and arbutus, she approached what appeared to
be a garden more private than the rest. It was,
however, guarded only by a light wire fence.
The gate was open, and a flush of roses beyond
proved too tempting. Esther glided in. It
comprised about half an acre, and was filled with
rose-trees. It was the famed rose-pleasance of
Gosling Graize, pride and solace of many a
defunct Dame Gosling, and fruitful source of
heart-burning among all gardeners of the district
whose hearts were in their office.

Rose time was past, but a few varieties were
yet in bloom, and Esther, whose passion was a
rose, examined them with delight. One, just,
attaining perfection, turned its glowing face
towards her. She gathered it tenderly.

"When I die," she said, aloud, "may the
last of God's beautiful works I see—except the
dear human face—be one of you!"

"Who comes into the giant's garden at cock-
crow to steal his favourite roses?" said a voice
of assumed ferocity, as the speaker, looking as
unlike Cormoran or Blunderbore as a handsome