and has many times performed THE TEMPEST
MACBETH without the music as originally
written, CORIOLANUS, CYMBELINE, JULIUS
CAESAR, HENRY THE EIGHTH, ANTONY AND
CLEOPATRA, and MR. HORNE'S reconstruction
of THE DUCHESS OF MALFI. In the spring of
the present year, we had the means of knowing
that MR. PHELPS had acted Shakspeare
at Sadler's Wells, one thousand nights.

It is to be observed that these plays have
not been droned through, in the old jog-trot
dreary matter-of-course manner, but have
been presented with the utmost care, with
great intelligence, with an evidently sincere
desire to understand and illustrate the beauties
of the poem. The smallest character has
been respectfully approached and studied;
the smallest accessory has been well
considered; every artist in his degree has been
taught to adapt his part, in the complete
effect, to all the other parts uniting to make
up the whole. The outlay has been very
great; but, having always had a sensible
purpose and a plain reason, has never
missed its mark. The illusion of the scene
has invariably been contrived in a most
striking, picturesque, and ingenious manner.
A completeness has been attained, which at
twenty times the cost could never have been
bought, if Mr. Phelps were not a gentleman
in spirit, and an accomplished and devoted
student of his art.

The management and audience have
reacted on each other. Sensible of the pains
bestowed on everything presented to them, the
audience have desired to show their appreciation
of such care, and have studied the plays
from the books, and have really come to
the Theatre for their intellectual profit. We
question whether a more sensible audience
for a good play could be found anywhere
than is to be found at Sadler's Wells. The
management, on the other hand, constantly
addressing itself to the improved taste it has
bred, is constantly impelled to advance.

The prices of admission are, to the boxes,
three shillings and two shillings; to the pit, a
shilling; to the gallery, sixpence. The latter
is now as orderly as a lecture-room. The pit,
which is very capacious, is made very
comfortable, and is constantly filled by respectable
family visitors. A father sits there with his
wife and daughters, as quietly, as easily, as
free from all offence, as in his own house.
The natural result is, that he goes there; that
staid and serious people of the neighbourhood
who once abhorred the name of a Theatre,
are frequenters of this one; and that the
place which was a Nuisance, is become quite
a household word.

We sincerely believe that if a man as earnest
and as sensible as Mr. Phelps, could do in
very many English towns what Mr. Phelps
has done in this suburb of London, he would
supply a great want which few observant
persons can fail to acknowledge, and would
do a giant's work in the discouragement of
low sensual enjoyments, as well as in the
conquering of prejudices not by any means
without foundation.

TWO ASPECTS OF IRELAND.
THE SECOND ASPECT.

No Oedipus came to solve the riddle of
Ireland's destiny. Heaven itself put forth
its hand, and amid the most awful calamities
which ever swept over a nation, burst the
fatal spell which for ages had bound down
the people in unspeakable misery. A plague
fell on the sole root by which hung the lives
of five millions of human beings. Famine
followed. The stricken people perished. They
lay dead in thousands in their squalid cabins.
They were rolled up on the road-sides like
black and wasted mummies. They dropped
in dumb inanition amid their shrivelling
kindred, who were too feeble to bury them.
Ireland's ages of evil seemed resolved into one
wide death.

But the mighty calamity, annihilated, with
mortal life, inborn prejudices more powerful
than life or death itself. The die was cast-
the hour was come! At that terrible cry of
famishing thousands, humanity rose in its
divine greatness. England forgot "Repeal,"
rebellion, and everything but the inalienable
fraternity of men- the eternal law in the
heart impelling to succour misery and to
save the perishing. To the very ends of the
earth thrilled the horror of that great
misfortune; and America poured in, from her
fullness, her sustaining corn.

The eye of the whole civilised world gazed
in wonder at the food-ruin of a whole nation;
and every generous mind ruminated
earnestly on a remedy. The people were dying,
but undeceived. Many a true man now
brought forth his remedy for the woes of
Ireland- Sir Robert Peel proclaimed his
great scheme of renovation; and, out of the
united effort of the British Parliament, Ireland
promised to present a new aspect. A new
day dawned, great, real, and progressive.

The old heron had sat on the lofty trees
of Sporeen; had fished by its lonely lake
and moorland stream for many a year, when,
one day, there came a car driving to that
solitary place. Beside the Irish driver, sat a
man who had evidently fed on the fat of John
Bull's farms. He was of no great stature,
but of robust build. He wore a blue coat
with gilt buttons, a capacious yellow waistcoat,
an ample white hat: his countenance was
ruddy and sunburnt. He looked about with
a quick and keen eye. There was evident
wonder in it, and from his tongue came a
frequent "God bless me! " When he got
to the house, he looked up to its roof
on all sides, and stood in silent amazement
on those very steps- still lordly in their
desolation- upon which the former master had
so suddenly met his fate. He hastened from spot