muscle of former days. My energy? God help me! While I struggle with this mockery of life, to talk to me of energy!"

At last I became possessed of the idea that its present degradation, linked with the memories of Rome, were dispiriting; that the grand Old City was a very nursery of gloom; that the atmosphere was sepulchral; how could such an organization as that of Sir Oswald live amid such elements? he would be better if at once removed. I besought him to leave Rome. He smiled at my earnestness, but complied at once.

"Certainly, he would go wherever I pleased."

"Venice?—he had written a poem on Venice-"

"No; not Venice, where every bridge is a bridge of sighs, and every gondola a hearse-not Venice-"

"Florence?" No, he was wearied of the eternity of marble palaces! "Should we go home?"

"To England? No, not yet, if ever; certainly not yet."

"Naples?"

"Well, Naples was delicious, always fresh-and such sunshine! We will go to Naples at once. I daresay the atmosphere of Rome is depressing-clever little Mildred to think of that."

He knew how I loved him; but he always treated me like a childstill like a child.

We left Rome the following day, and as we travelled as rapidly as four Italian horses could be induced to move, he seemed to enjoy the change to the open country from the rooms in which he had been selfconfined. I had become so habituated to my new position, or so absorbed by the idol of my life, that luxury and wealth became mere matters of course; I never cared for, nor even thought of, them-I only saw, I only thought, of HIM—HIM—so gentle, and kind, and generous! I often hated my own life-I often wondered if it would please God to take me soon; and yet, in some things, I was necessary, if not to his happiness, to his comfort. I could read to him, sing to him! Well, that was something. Then he wearied of rapid motion, and we journeyed by easy stages. Sometimes he would ask me to stay at a place, that, however inconvenient, arrested his fancy for the time; and when within about twenty English miles of Naples, his faithful valet became so suddenly ill that he could not proceed. I proposed to leave my maid to watch over him, and that we should hasten to Naples and send out a physician who had attended Sir Oswald during his former residence there, and of whom he had often spoken; but my husband loved the old servant sincerely, sent his courier for the physician, and determined that we should remain 'where we were. The inn (as you would call it) was far more picturesque than comfortable; it had been a very extensive chateau, and consisted of several turrets and galleries, narrow staircases, and half-isolated rooms, some few opening into what seemed an interminable corridor, that as it were roofed a precipitous mass of rocks forming one side of the court

yard. This corridor was of peculiar construction, not uncommon abroad -a portion of it was open, and only protected by balustrades, upon which a broad flat board was placed, and on it a thick cushion covered by crimson cloth; in front of this opening were seats, and it was the habit of the guests to sit there, and, leaning on the cushion, either look into the inn-yard beneath, or over the wall-which was low, and formed of rough stones-to the lovely country beyond, where a river, deep, and determinedly blue, glided rapidly through meadow and woodland-a sweeping river, dark and dangerous, yet smooth as a looking-glass. Sir Oswald was lying on a sofa in our bedroom-the door open; I could see him while I stood gazing through the arch at the river, which had almost painfully fascinated me. I could hear the ringing hoofs of the courier's horse through the clear air, as he proceeded on his way to Naples, and the cooing of some doves that were in a state of half confinement beneath. I saw lizards basking in a cleft of the rock directly under where I leaned upon the cushion. I walked nearly to the end of the corridor, to our servant's room, and tapped at the door, inquiring how he was? Margaret answered, and said he was dozing. I turned into our room, and told Sir Oswald, who thanked me for the good news by one of his sweet smiles. I then wandered back to the arch, and leaning again on the cushion, enjoyed the soft delicious air that breathes only in Italy. A little beyond the opening, in a recess of the corridor, stood a table of inlaid marble, covered, of course, with dust, and this dust coated one or two dilapidated newspapers, which must have lain upon it for some time. I suppose Sir Oswald rose to seek a book: I saw him pass to the table; I saw him take up a paper, and after a brief glance, suddenly drop it, as if stung by a scorpion. In a moment I was by his side; and in answer to my question, Was he ill? he silently pointed to the paper lying on the ground.

Among the scanty news was a paragraph stating that Mr. and Miss Mansfeld and suite were at a certain hotel in Naples. I reminded my husband that the name was not uncommon; he only said, in a subdued voice-"We will not go to Naples !" I looked for the date: that portion of the paper had been torn away. He paced up and down the corridor for some time, pausing more than once at his valet's door; then resuming his walk. Oh, how terrible was the bitterness that I-I who would have died to make him happy-that I, stood between him and happiness. It was a wild unreasoning thought, that had simply gained strength by repetition. I asked him, as he had decided against Naples, where we should go to, and he replied, "It shall be arranged after the physician's arrival." The sky became tinged with the hues of the departing sun, which was setting behind the rocks, that rose perpendicularly at the back of the house; the inn was, however, isolated from them by a deep, narrow gully, across which a light bridge had been thrown; it was only the breadth of a couple of unguarded boards, and was so frail-spanning the dark abyss—as to make me nervous while I gazed upon it, which I did from a window that was opposite the

corridor. At first, my husband was feverish and unresting; then he became languid, but still moving about without a purpose. At last, I persuaded him to go to bed, promising to call him when the doctor arrived. Neither of us spoke of the subject that occupied our thoughts. Daylight faded quite away; and closing his door gently, I resumed my seat, and commenced reading by moonlight-always one of my delights. But I could not chain my mind to a page, or an idea; it wandered, despite myself. I could not tell what I read. When I thought of the possibility of meeting HER, who exercised such an influence over my husband, my brain reeled. I felt that I was engaged in a combat for which I lacked strength; in hopeless agony, I clasped my hands and sank upon my knees, striving to pray. I asked God of His mercy to give me-alas! not what He pleased, but what pleased myself. I could not say "Thy will be done,❞—I desired mine should be accomplished. I wondered if there were truth in tales of love-philtres and charms. I would have sought out any who could have sold me such, and purchased it, to the giving up of my young life, to have known that my husband loved me even for a day. I accused God of injustice, rather than man: What had I done to be so tortured?

The river rolled on, freighted with moonbeams; it seemed a road of silver glory, a true peace-giver. How beautiful it was! how deep, and calm, and holy! By day it was blue and cold, but at night it shone in the moonlight-a fitting bath for angels. My maid came, as the night advanced, and folded a shawl round me, entreating me to go to bed, the servant, she said, was much better, and the sun would rise before the physician could arrive. At least I must lie down, my hair was wet with dew-Was My Lady ill? Suddenly, we heard the sound of carriages, and the loud cracking of postilions' whips, and the great gate-bell rang, and the scene was broken up by the noisy rushing forth of servants, and the entrance into the courtyard of one of the heavy carriages of the country. I was glad, then, to retire to my room. My husband was sleeping, as he always did, a restless, troubled sleep; my bed was in a recess at the farther end, where a great door had been built up, and an old Indian screen, covered with the usual gorgeous incongruities peculiar to the East, divided the room. My maid. knelt down silently and chafed my feet and hands-they were "so cold," she said. I did not feel them so. At last, partially undressed, I lay down, and heard the new arrivals in a far-off part of the corridor, as I supposed going to their rooms. Soon after, apparently dissatisfied, they came nearer to our end, but they spoke low,-doubtless the master of the hotel had informed them that there was a sick gentleman in one of the chambers, and they had the good feeling to remember it. Soon, all was quiet, and then I must have fallen into a deep sleep.

PRIVILEGES OF THE STAGE.

A QUESTION, directly affecting the interests of the Stage, and no less directly affecting a larger consideration, the amusements of the people, has recently been raised in the Green-rooms of the London theatres, and brought to issue, more or less conclusively, before certain legal and magisterial tribunals. It has hitherto been discussed, if it can be said to have been discussed at all, only from the professional or technical point of view; and it is, therefore, necessary to show that it presents other aspects of more general importance. The question may be stated in half-a-dozen words-The right of acting Stage Plays. This looks simple enough, but a moment's reflection will discover that under its simplicity lie several somewhat knotty problems. Before we can determine any thing, for instance, about the right of acting Stage-plays, we must determine what it that legally constitutes a Stage-play. It is idle to talk about trespasses, we have laid down our boundaries. Rights imply wrongs; and we must understand their exact operation before we can adjust a scale guarantees and penalties. More important than all is it to be quite clear as to the kind of right we are contending over. Is it a right by statute? Is it a right by usage? Is it a moral right? Are we bound from the start to accept the right as being conceded on all hands, so that we must consider the discussion limited to the bare question of infringement? Or are we at liberty to dig up the foundations of the proposition, and discuss the reasonableness, justice, or utility of the right on which we make our stand? It is just possible, that while we are expending all our ingenuity in endeavouring to decide whether such a proceeding is, or is not, an invasion of such a right, we may be overlooking a far more material question-to wit: Whether the right itself should be maintained?

It is not so easy, therefore, as it might seem at a glance, to come to a safe conclusion on the question of acting Stage-plays. We must not only be accurate as to the terms and scope of the argument, in order to form a comprehensive conception of its different bearings, as it touches managers and actors, and the public over and above all; but we must go back upon history and experience for a practical insight into the working of theatrical rights generally. How the question grew into its present form may be briefly traced.

Something like eighteen years have elapsed since the right of acting Five-act Plays, Tragedies, mixed Dramas, and Comedies, was confined to three houses, protected by patents-Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and the Haymarket. So jealously, indeed, was this privilege conserved, that even the monopoly itself was kept within strict limits. The Haymarket was not allowed to be open more than four months in the year. By degrees, however, this restriction was relaxed, until at last the licence was extended to the whole year. The monopoly of the three Patent houses was productive of some advantages to the drama, the profession, and the public. It sus

tained a taste for the highest order of dramatic literature; collected picked companies; and, having the command of the leading talent in the kingdom, produced plays with a strength and fitness of cast that could not be obtained under a regime of free trade-by which the best actors, instead of being combined in one theatre, are dispersed over twenty. But monopolies are always unpopular in free countries; and very little outcry was sufficient to bring the patents into odium. A strong case was made out without difficulty. Mr. Davidge, who had the merit of being the inventor of the Shilling Order system, wanted Shakespeare at the Coburg—and it was very hard he couldn't get him. There was a brisk demand for the Elizabethan dramatists in Norton Folgate, and a yearning for the noblest forms of art in Whitechapel. Why should the grimy multitudes that nightly assembled under the dripping sconces of the Bowers and Saloons of Hoxton and Shoreditch be debarred the intellectual pleasure of "assisting" at the enchantments of the Tempest, or of breathing the love-sick air through which Antony and Cleopatra floated down the Cydnus? Were they never to be elevated above the Tom-and-Jerry and Raw-head-and-Bloody-bones repertoire? This line of reasoning, which pointed out a brilliant future for the education of the masses, was irresistible, and the monopolies were abolished accordingly. Whether the expected result followed we need not inquire. All the world knows what has become of the "legitimate drama" since. But that is not our concern here.

The Act by which the patents were extinguished placed all licensed play-houses on the same level. The drama was thrown open; and every house licensed by the Lord Chamberlain in London, or by the Magistrates elsewhere, was privileged to act all manner of "Stage-plays," from the "mighty line" to the meanest drivel. Of course, the Act of Parliament that conferred this privilege established penalties for its violation; and, as the right was exclusively limited to licensed houses, any unlicensed house that attempted to prowl upon the preserves of the Stage-play came under the displeasure of the law.

What the law contemplated by the term "Stage-play" is carefully explained in the 23rd section of the Act 6th & 7th Vic. c. 68. The words of the section are- That, in this Act, the word 'Stage-play' shall be taken to include every Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, Opera, Burletta, Interlude, Melodrama, Pantomime, or other Entertainment of the Stage, or any part thereof.” The merit of this description lies entirely in the passage we have printed in italics. It would be the easiest thing in the world to construct a dramatic entertainment that should not come under any one of the classes specially enumerated—a Masque for instance; but it would be clearly impossible by any species of performance, now existing, or hereafter to be created, to evade that comprehensive line in italics, which sweeps up the whole capabilities of the Stage. The description "other entertainments of the Stage, or any part thereof," embraces all the varieties of spectacle, representation, and action, that the human imagination can conceive, or human