In

same idea, or rather showing the same idea under various aspects. "The Vanquished," Verga himself explains in a preface to the first of this series, are those vanquished in the struggle for existencethe weak who are left behind in the march of progress-not the fittest who survive, but the unfit who succumb. "Vanquished ones," he says, "deposited on the shore by the current, which has destroyed and drowned them, each one bearing the imprint of his weakness, which might have been the glory of his strength. Each one, from the humblest to the highest, has had his share in the struggle for existence, for comfort, for ambition-from the humble fisherman to the nouveau riche and the intruder in higher classes-to the man of genius and strong will, who feels himself strong enough to rule his fellows-to the artist who imagines he is following his ideal, but who is following another form of ambition." Verga, then, describes those who fail in the grand struggle for advancement. In "I Malavoglia" we have the story of a fisherman's family, struggling against adverse fortune for the bare means of subsistence. "Mastro don Gesualdo," a step further in the scale, material wants provided for, comes the ambition to rise in social position. In "Duchessa di Leyra " aristocratic vanity is displayed; in "L'Onorevole Scipioni" political ambition; and in "L'Uomo di Lusso" all these desires and ambitions are united in one man, who feels them, suffers from them, and is consumed by them. Such in brief is the conception of Verga's series, no less remarkable for artistic workmanship and brilliancy of imagination than for conception. Besides these works Verga has written some volumes of short stories describing scenes of life in southern Italy, each one a perfect and artistic sketch. One of these is the "Cavalleria Rusticana" ("Rustic Chivalry "), written as a story, then dramatised by the author, and now set to music by Mascagni, in the opera which has become famous during the last year. These "Novelle Rusticane" lose much of their charm when translated, and can perhaps only be fully appreciated by those who have lived in the south; but perhaps. an amusing account of the naïve performances of the "Mistero (a mystery or miracle play acted at Christmas by the peasants) may be appreciated by English readers.

The Mystery represented the Flight into Egypt, and the part of the Most Holy Virgin had been given to neighbour Nanni, who was short of stature and had shaved off his beard on purpose. As soon as he appeared carrying the Holy Child in his arms and saying to the thieves "This is my flesh and blood!" the spectators beat their breasts with stones, and all cried at once :

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'Mercy on us, Holy Virgin!"

But Janu and Master Cola, who were the thieves, with false beards of lamb's wool, paid no attention, and tried to rob her of the Holy Child, to carry him to Herod. The sexton had known how to choose his thieves! Real hearts of stone they were. So much so, that Pinto, in his quarrels with neighbour Janu about the fig-tree in the yard, from that time forth applied as a term of reproach: "You are the thief of the Flight into Egypt.'

Don Angelino, book in hand, took care to prompt Master Nunzio from behind the curtain.

"Vain, O woman, is thy prayer; I feel no pity! I feel no pity !' . . . Your turn now, Master Janu."

For those two ruffians had actually forgotten their parts, such rascals were they! The Virgin Mary in vain prayed and entreated them to desist, until the crowd murmured :

"Neighbour Nanni is faint-hearted because he is dressed up as Virgin Mary. Otherwise he would soon run them through with his knife!"

But when St. Joseph appeared on the scene with his white cotton-wool beard, and went about seeking his wife in the thicket, which only reached his chest, the crowd could hardly keep still, for thieves, Madonna and St. Joseph could all have touched each other easily, if the mystery had not just consisted in this—that they were all to run after each other and never be caught. This was the point of the miracle, you see.

A direct contrast to Verga is the writer Antonio Fogazzaro, idealist par excellence, but sufficiently modern and sufficiently realistic in the treatment of his subjects to be read even by those who consider idealism out of date. His "Daniele Cortis," an exquisite story of love and self-sacrifice, shows the skill of the writer in his fine drawing of characters and situations, his artistic refinement of style. He does not draw a villain, it is true; but, as far as difficulty is concerned, it is more difficult to do what Fogazzaro does-give us pictures of high-souled, noble natures, and make them so human and interesting that we sympathise with them and feel them to be true and lovable.

"Il Mistero del Poeta" is exactly what its title indicates-the most delicate and ideal love-story that can be imagined. It is in truth an ideal love. So subtly tender are some of its sentiments and confessions that one feels almost indignant with the author for having exposed to public gaze the secrets of a loving, sensitive heart. (At least, it made this impression upon one who has been hardened by a long course of novel reading, in which love is treated of in all forms and expressions.) It is the story of an Italian poet's love for a woman under the spell of a deadly disease which may at any moment prove fatal. Improbable it may be, yet we feel it might have occurred somewhere, sometime-the characters are so real that we know them. Some of the scenes are in Germany, and the characters of two German brothers are described with such

appreciation of their inner good, generous nature, and their outer quaint peculiarities!

Fogazzaro, one of the last and most poetic idealists, does not treat ugly or repulsive subjects. He chooses what is best and noblest in human nature, and makes us feel not only that such characters existed, but that they always exist around us-we live with them and struggle with them in their generous aspirations, and feel better for it. In this idealism is justified.

MARY HARGRAVE.

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PAGES ON PLAYS.

A

THE ETHICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM.

JOURNALIST of my acquaintance was good enough, lately, to favour me with his views as to the duties and the purposes of dramatic criticism. They were not exhilarating opinions, they were not ennobling opinions, but they were in one sense extremely instructive.

According to my counsellor, the one purpose of dramatic criticism was the obtaining of advertisements for the paper in which the criticisms appeared. The best way of obtaining such advertisements was by inspiring, or by seeking to inspire, a sense of fear in the minds of the various theatrical managers. Therefore the dramatic critic's duty was to slog away hard, and so become a power. The proper weapon of the critic, I was assured, was a bludgeon to be wielded apparently with exactly the sense of honour and scrupulousness that is exercised by the footpad upon a lonely road to his victim. It was the old lesson of "Your money or your life" writ anew. Twirl your cudgel, menace and bully till you get that sole object of your ambition, a stocked advertisement column. Pay no heed to any possible merits that there may be in play or in players, have no care for antiquated theories about art, only succeed in inspiring fear and all will be well.

Was there ever a more cynical, more ignoble view of the critical function? This is to make a critic into a bravo, this is to return at once to the brave days of Bludyer, this is to convert the pen of the writer into the knife of the assassin, or rather into the jemmy of the thief. One had hoped that the brutalities of Bludyerism were things of the past, that it was not merely the first duty of a critic to express his own opinion honestly and straightforwardly-for that was always the first duty of a critic whether he did it or no-but that it had come to be a recognised thing in civilised countries that such and nothing else was the first duty of a critic. The theories of my acquaintance undeceived me; they were expressed with a frankness which was their one redeeming feature, and in hearkening to them I

felt sick at heart, and indeed I might almost add sick at stomach. Surely to find such opinions advanced as the canons of criticism, as the maxims of the new literary morality, was enough to nauseate.

Happily, I do not believe that these are the canons, these the maxims that influence criticism of any serious kind in this country or in any country. No doubt there will always be, in every way of life, men who regard everything as subservient to the sordid instinct. But in the republic of letters I do not think that they form the majority. I would not affront those critics whom I have the honour of knowing personally, or whose writings I follow with attention, by assuming the possibility that they are animated by any other purpose than the sincere expression of their opinions. Those opinions may be right or wrong, they may express them blandly or brutally, they may be suave or they may be savage, but I am convinced that they are sincere, and that they are written with no mean speculation as to the possible length of advertisement which this stroke or that stab may wring from a publisher on the one hand or a manager on the other. But if criticism-or what had the effrontery to call itself criticism-came to be nothing better than the mask which conceals the features of the road-agent, then criticism would become one of the vilest of trades, compared to which petty larceny. would be heroic, and the imposition of the begging-letter a gentlemanly occupation.

IF

THE PLAYS OF MR. STEVENSON AND MR. HENLEY.

F the theories that I have repeated held good generally there would be little difficulty in accounting for the dismal condition of the English stage. A venal criticism could scarcely be expected to stimulate a good stage. But whatever the causes-and I do not think that a venal criticism is one of the causes-the fact is patent enough to all who choose to pay any attention to the matter, that we have not of late or for long enough been overburdened with any superfluity of good plays in all our multitude of theatres.

All the more reason therefore to welcome with warmth the good plays when we get them. And in a volume which is published by Mr. David Nutt, in the Strand, we get no less than three of them. The plays which were written some time since by Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson and Mr. W. E. Henley in collaboration, have been the admiration of those who were privileged to read them in their privately printed form. One of them, "Beau Austin," was the delight of a wider circle when Mr. Beerbohm Tree essayed the VOL. CCLXXIII. NO. 1943.

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