shake their heads and say: "If they only knew!" Without accepting in full so pessimistic an estimate of success, we must still say that very generally the cost of the candle deducts largely from the gain of the game. That which in these exceptional cases holds among ourselves, holds more generally in America. An intensified life, which may be summed up as-great labor, great profit, great expenditure-has for its concomitant a wear and tear which considerably diminishes in one direction the good gained in another. Added Added together, the daily strain through many hours and the anxieties occupying many other hours-the occupation of consciousness by feelings that are either indifferent or painful, leaving relatively little time for occupation of it by pleasurable feelings-tend to lower its level more than its level is raised by the gratifications of achievement and the accompanying benefits. So that it may, and in many cases does, result that diminished happiness goes along with increased prosperity. Unquestionably, as long as order is fairly maintained, that absence of political and social restraints which gives free scope to the struggles for profit and honor, conduces greatly to material advance of the society-develops the industrial arts, extends and improves the business organizations, augments the wealth; but that it raises the value of individual life, as measured by the average state of its feeling, by no means follows. That it will do so eventually, is certain; but that it does so now seems, to say the least, very doubtful.

The truth is that a society and its members act and react in such wise that while, on the one hand, the nature of the society is determined by the natures of its members; on the other hand, the activities of its members (and presently their natures) are re-determined by the needs of the society, as these alter: change in either entails change in the other. It is an obvious implication that, to a great extent, the life of a society so sways the wills of its members as to turn them to its ends. That which is manifest during the militant stage, when the social aggregate coerces its units into cooperation for defence, and sacrifices many of their lives for its corporate

preservation, holds under another form during the industrial stage, as we at present know it. Though the co-operation of citizens is now voluntary instead of compulsory; yet the social forces impel them to achieve social ends while apparently achieving only their own ends. The man who, carrying out an invention, thinks only of private welfare to be thereby secured, is in far larger measure working for public welfare instance the contrast between the fortune made by Watt and the wealth which the steam engine has given to mankind. He who utilizes a new material, improves a method of production, or introduces a better way of carrying on business, and does this for the purpose of distancing competitors, gains for himself little compared with that which he gains for the community by facilitating the lives of all. Either unknowingly or in spite of themselves, Nature leads men by purely personal motives to fulfil her ends Nature being one of our expressions for the Ultimate Cause of things, and the end, remote when not proximate, being the highest form of human life.

Hence no argument, however cogent, can be expected to produce much effect; only here and there one may be influenced. As in an actively militant stage of society it is impossible to make many believe that there is any glory preferable to that of killing enemies; so, where rapid material growth is going on, and affords unlimited scope for the energies of all, little can be done by insisting that life has higher uses than work and accumulation. While among the most powerful of feelings continue to be the desire for public applause and dread of public censure-while the anxiety to achieve distinction, now by conquering enemies, now by beating competitors, continues predominant-while the fear of public reprobation affects men more than the fear of divine vengence (as witness the long survival of duelling in Christian societies); this excess of work which ambition prompts, seems likely to continue with but small qualification. The eagerness for the honor accorded to success, first in war and then in commerce, has been indispensable as a means to peopling the earth with the higher types of man, and

the subjugation of its surface and its forces to human use. Ambition may fitly come to bear a smaller ratio to other motives, when the working out of these needs is approaching completeness; and when also, by consequence, the scope for satisfying ambition is diminishing. Those who draw the obvious corollaries from the doctrine of Evolution-those who believe that the process of modification upon modification which has brought life to its present height must raise it still higher, will anticipate that "the last infirmity of noble minds'' will in the distant future slowly decrease. As the sphere for achievement becomes smaller, the desire

for applause will lose that predominance which it now has. A better ideal of life may simultaneously come to prevail. When there is fully recognized the truth that moral beauty is higher than intellectual power-when the wish to be admired is in large measure replaced by the wish to be loved; that strife for distinction which the present phase of civilization shows us will be greatly moderated. Along with other benefits may then come a rational proportioning of work and relaxation; and the relative claims of to-day and to-morrow may be properly balanced.-H. S.]Contemporary Review.

MY DEAR ANNA SWANWICK: You wonder, I dare say, at my long delay in yielding to your urgent request that I should write of Imogen-your chief favorite, as you tell me, among all Shakespeare's women. You would not wonder, could I make you feel how, by long brooding over her character, and by living through all her emotions and trials on the stage till she seemed to become " my very life of life," I find it next to impossible to put her so far away from me that I can look at her as a being to be scanned, and measured, and written about. All words-such, at least, as are at my command-seem inadequate to express what I felt about her from my earliest years, not to speak of all that the experiences of my woman's heart and of human life have taught me since of the matchless truth and beauty with which Shakespeare has invested her. In drawing her he has

made his masterpiece; and of all heroines of poetry or romance, who can be named beside her?

It has been my happy lot to impersonate not a few ideal women among them two of your own Greek favorites, Antigone and Iphigenia in Aulis :* but Imogen has always occupied the largest place in my heart; and while she taxed my powers on the stage to the uttermost, she has always repaid me of the effort tenfold by the delight of being the means of placing a being in every way so noble before the eyes and hearts of my audiences, and of making them feel, perhaps, and think of her, and of him to whose genius we owe her, with something of my own reverence and love. Ah, how much finer a medium than all the pen can do for bringing home to the hearts of people what was in Shakespeare's mind, when he drew his men and women, is the "well-trod stage,' with that living commentary which actor

* What delight I had in acting these plays in Dublin, and what intelligent and sympathetic audiences! The "Antigone" gave me the greater pleasure, both for itself, and because of Mendelssohn's music. The chorus was admirable, and all the scenic adjuncts correct and complete. Although the whole performance occupied little more than an hour, great audiences filled the house night after night. It is strange how deeply these Greek plays moved the Irish heart-much more deeply than either the Scotch or the English.

or actress capable in their art can give! How much has he left to be filled up by accent, by play of feature, by bearing, by action, by subtle shades of expression, inspired by the heart and striking home to the heart-by all those little movements and inflections of tone which come intuitively to the sympathetic artist, and which play so large a part in producing the impression left upon us by a living interpretation of the masterpoet! To one accustomed like myself to such resources as these for bringing out the results of my studies of Shakespeare's women, it seems hopeless to endeavor to convey the same impressions by mere words. The more a character has wound itself round the heart, the more is this felt. Can you wonder, then, that I approach my woman of women with fear and trembling?

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Do you remember what that bright, charming, frank old lady-no, I will not call her old," for there is nothing old about her; I know many far older in spirit who count not half or a quarter her years-Mrs D-S-said to me lately when you were standing by? She had been scolding me in her playful way for not having given her more of my "letters" to read, and, after calling me idle, unkind, etc., asked me who was to be the subject of my next. I said, I thought Imogen, but that I knew I should find it most difficult to express what I felt about her. Ah, my dear !" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in her usual characteristic manner when she feels strongly, you will never write of Imogen as you acted her!" I told her that her words filled me with despair. "Never mind," was her rejoinder; go on and try. My memory will fill up the gaps. I have one of the kind letters by me, which you wrote after seeing me act Imogen at Drury Lane in 1866. So your memory too will have to come to my aid, by filling up the gaps. It is very pleasant to think that our friend's feeling may be shared by many of that unknown public who were always so ready to put themselves in sympathy with me; but that does not make the fulfilment of my promise to you the less formidable.

Imogen had been one of the great favorites of my girlhood. At school we used to read the scenes at the cave with

Belarius, Arviragus, and Guiderius; and never can I forget our getting them up to act as a surprise for our governess on her birthday. We always prepared some surprise" on this occasion, or what she kindly took as one. The brothers were arrayed in all the fur trimmings, boas, cuffs, muffs, etc., we could muster-one of the muffs doing duty as the cap for Belarius. Then the practisings for something suggestive of the Eolian harp that has to play a Miserere for Imogen's supposed death! Our only available means of simulating Belarius's "ingenious instrument" was a guitar; but the girl who played it had to be apart from the scene, and, as she never would take the right cue, she was always breaking in at the wrong place. I was the Imogen; and, curiously enough, it was as Imogen my dear governess first saw me on the stage. I wondered whether she remembered the incidents of our school-girl performance as I did. She might very well forget, but not I; for what escapes our memory of things done or thought in childhood? Such little matters appear eventful, and loom so very large to young eyes and imaginations!

I cannot quite remember who acted with me first in Cymbeline, but I can never forget Mr. Macready's finding fault with my page's dress, which I had ordered to be made with a tunic that descended to the ankles. On going to the theatre at the last rehearsal, he told me, with many apologies and much concern, that he had given directions to have my dress altered. He had taken the liberty of doing this, he said, without consulting me, because, although he could understand the reasons which had weighed with me in ordering the dress to be made as I had done, he was sure I would forgive him when he explained to me that such a dress would not tell the story, and that one half the audienceall, in fact, who did not know the play

would not discover that it was a disguise, but would suppose Imogen to be still in woman's attire. Remonstrance was too late, and, with many tears, I had to yield, and to add my own terror to that of Imogen when first entering the cave. I managed, however, to devise a kind of compromise, by swathing myself in the "franklin housewife's riding

cloak," which I kept about me as I went into the cave; and this I caused to be wrapped round me afterward when the brothers carry in Imogen-the poor "dead bird, which they have which they have made so much on.

I remember well the Pisanio was my good friend Mr. Elton, the best Pisanio of my time. No one whom I have since met has so truly thrown into the part the deep devotion, the respectful manly tenderness and delicacy of feeling, which it requires.

He drew out all the nicer points of the character with the same fine and firm hand which we used to admire upon the French stage in M. Regnier, that most finished of artists, in characters of this kind. As I write, by some strange association of ideas-I suppose we must have been rehearsing Cymbeline at the time-a little circumstance illustrative of the character of this good Mr. Elton comes into my mind. Pardon me if I leave Imogen for the moment, to speak of other matters. This helpful friend did not always cheer and praise, but very kindly told me of my mistakes. We were to appear in The Lady of Lyons, which was then in its first run, and had been commanded by the Queen for a State performance. I had never acted before her Majesty and Prince Albert; and to me, young as I was, this was a great event. Immediately I thought there ought to be something special about my dress for the occasion. Now, either from a doubt as to the play's success, or for some good financial reason, no expense had been incurred in bringing it out. Mr. Macready asked me if I had any dresses which could be adapted for Pauline Deschapelles. He could not, he said, afford to give me new ones, and he would be glad if I could manage without them. Of course I said I would willingly do my best. Upon consulting with excellent Mr. Dominic Colnaghi, the printseller in Pall Mall, who always gave me access to all his books of costume, I found, as I had already heard, that the dress of the young girl of the period was simple in material and form-fine muslin, with lace fichus, ruffles, broad sashes, and the hair worn in long loose curls down the back, my own coming in naturally for this fashion. As it was in my case, so I

suppose it was with the others-the costumes, however, being all true to the period. The scenery was of course good and sufficient, for in this department Mr. Macready never failed. And thus, with little cost, this play, which was to prove so wondrously successful, came forth to the world unassisted by any extraneous adjuncts, depending solely upon its own merits and the actors' interpretation of it. It must have been written with rare knowledge of what the stage requires, for not one word was cut out nor one scene rearranged or altered after the first representation. The author was no doubt lucky in his interpreters. Mr. Macready, though in appearance far too old for Claude Melnotte, yet had a slight, elastic figure, and so much buoyancy of manner, that the impression of age quickly wore off. The secret of his success was, that he lifted the character, and gave it the dignity and strength which it required to make Claude respected under circumstances so equivocal. This was especially conspicuous in a critical point early in the play (Act ii), where Claude passes himself off as a prince. Mr. Macready's manner became his dress. The slight confusion, when addressed by Colonel Damas in Italian, was so instantly turned to his own advantage by the playful way in which he laid the blame on the general's bad Italian, while his whole bearing was so dignified and courteous, that it did not seem strange he should charm the girlish fancy of one accustomed to be courted, yet whose heart was hitherto untouched. He made the hero, indeed, one of nature's exceptional gentlemen, and in this way prepossessed his audience, despite the unworthy device to which Claude lends himself in the first frenzy of wounded vanity. Truth to say, unless dealt with poetically and romantically, both Claude and Pauline drop down into very commonplace people-indeed I have been surprised to see how commonplace. Again, Mrs. Clifford as Madame Deschapelles, by a stately aristocratic bearing, carried off the heartless foolishness of her sayings. The Damas of Mr. Bartley was a fine vigorous impersonation of the blunt, impetuous, genial soldier. Mr. Elton acted, as he always did, most carefully