Frank sat down, and, stretching his legs on the wood, pulled his hat over his eyes, and tried to go to sleep. It was no use. Just as he was dropping off a cab would come by. People talked as they walked past. A breath of the night air touched his cheek, and reminded him that he was not in bed. Besides, the bench was as hard as a third-class railway carriage. Even to an old campaigner, wood makes a poor substitute for a spring mattress. "Hang these knots," said Frank, as the clock struck one. "I had no idea that knots were so much harder than common wood." He shifted his position, and tried to persuade himself that he was getting sleepy. "Adversity," he murmured, "makes one acquainted with strange beds. The advantage of the situation is, that one is not afraid of fleas." A caterpillar fell upon his nose. "Alternative. We may have caterpillars if we lie under a tree, or we may be watered by the fresh dew from Heaven if we take a bench outside a tree. Which shall we do? Let us consider." He lay back, and fell asleep. Five minutes after he lost consciousness, he was awakened by something touching his feet. He started up from a dream of soft couches. "I beg a thousand pardons," said a soft voice. "I thought there was room for two." The speaker, as the half light of a summer night, not to speak of the gas, showed him, was a tall and rather handsome man of thirty or so, dressed in a frock coat. Frank noticed at once that the heels of his boots, as the lamp shone on them, were worn to the stumps. Further investigation showed that there were no signs of collar or shirt, and that his hat, as he took it off with a polite wave, was limp at the brim. By daylight, what appeared now as glossiness would have shown as grease; but this it was impossible to tell. "I dare say there's room for two," said Frank, "if we economize legs." The stranger gravely took his place, and they divided the space so as to admit of four legs, all rather longer than the average. "Do you a-often-use this place?" inquired the stranger. "No," said Frank, with a laugh, half in bitterness. "This is the first time that I have tried the hotel. Perhaps it will not be the last. I find it draughty-exposed, perhaps, in situation. No doubt, extremely healthy." "Ah!" said the other, with a ready sympathy. "You have, however, the very best seat, for a warm night, in the whole park. Are you sleepy, sir?” "Not very. Who the devil can sleep here?" "When you are used to it, it is really not bad for two or three months in the year. If I only had some tobacco, I should be quite comfortable." "Take a cigar. I've got a few left." He pulled out his case, and handed it to his newly made acquaintance. "A thousand thanks. When I was in the 4th Buffs-you've heard of that regiment?-I used to buy my cigars at Hudson's. I've got to smoke shag now, and can't always get that. A capital cigar. I'm very much obliged to you, sir-very-much -obliged-indeed. A very good cigar. If you were to keep them for a year in tea, you would find them ripen better, perhaps. But a very good cigar. I suppose you are hard up?" "Yes. Most of the visitors at this caravanserai are, I presume." "In the service?" "A humble retainer of mine," said the Major. "Poor, as you see, but faithful. He does odd jobs for me, and I keep him going. Not a gentleman, you observe.' Frank laughed silently. garrison. This naturally led to certain successes which it would be sham modesty, at this lapse of time, to ignore. Do not you think so?" "Humph-gr-umph," was Frank's re ply. He was sound asleep, and the rest of the Major's revelations were consequently not wanted. From the thrilling interest of the commencement, it may be conjectured "It's a glorious thing, a good fling," said the Major. "Though it's ten years since I had mine, and it only lasted two years, I remember every day of it. You remember Kitty Nelaton, of the Adelphi?" "No. Never had the pleasure of her ac- that no greater misfortune could happen to quaintance." "A splendid woman. That, of course, was allowed. I took her, sir, from the Duke of Brentwood. His Grace nearly went mad with rage. Ah, I think I see myself now, tooling the loveliest pair of grays down to Richmond, I suppose, that ever were seen. But she was so devilish expensive. And I had a good year, too: got on the right thing for the Derby, landed at Ascot and Goodwood, and didn't do badly at Newmarket. Shall I tell you the story of my misfortunes?" "Do," said Frank-"if it will not bore you." "Not at all. It's a pleasure to talk to a gentleman; and besides, this is a capital. cigar. It's ten years ago. Some of the other men have gone under, too; so that I'm not without companions. We meet sometimes, and have a talk over old times. Odd thing life is. If I could put all my experiences in a book, sir, by gad you'd be astonished. The revelations I could make about paper, for instance; the little transactions in horseflesh-eh? and other kinds of " "I beg your pardon," said Frank, who had dropped off to sleep, and was awakened by his head nearly nodding him off the bench. "You were saying-" the British public than Frank's collapse. But he was a very unlucky man at this juncture of his fortunes. He slept two or three hours. awakened by a pressure at the chest. He was He started up, and just had time to grip the wrist of the respectable Mr. Jacob as that worthy was abstracting his watch and chain. Frank was strong as well as young. Jacob was neither young nor strong. Consequently, in less time than it takes to write this line, the watch and chain were back in their owner's pocket, and the luckless Jacob was despatched with many kicks and a little strong language. The Major was gone. Frank rubbed his eyes, and sat down again. It was past four, broad daylight, and the sun had risen, as the gilded clock-tower plainly showed. "Where's the Major?" thought Frank. "Did I dream? Was there a Major, or was it a nightmare? He began to tell me a story about somebody-Kitty something. I wonder if the six shillings are safe. Yes-here they are. What the deuce am I to do now?" A lovely morning: a sweet, delicious air. London fresh and bright, as if night had cleaned it and swept it. He got up, refreshed by his light sleep, and strolled down the silent avenue. On his right lay the sleepers upon the benches: poor bundles of rags, mostly; here and there, a woman with a baby; sometimes a girl, pale-faced and emaciated-perhaps a poor shirtmaker, starving in spite of virtue, because virtue, though it brings its own reward, does not always suffer that reward to take the form of a negotiable currency; sometimes a poor creature with cheeks that had once been fair, and had lately been painted su--because vice, though it sometimes brings sacks full of money with it, has a trick of running away with all of it in a surprising and unexpected way. "Let me begin at the beginning," said the Major, sucking his cigar, and beginning his story with the relish that "unfortunate" men always manifest in relating their misadventures. "I was the second son of a Norfolk baronet. Of course, as the second son, I had not much to look for from the family estate. However, I entered the army, and at once became-I may say, deservedly the most popular man in the regiment. This was owing partly, perhaps, to my personal good looks, partly to a certain periority of breeding which my family was ever remarkable for. Then, I was the best actor, the best billiard player, the best cricketer, the smartest officer in the whole Frank stopped, and looked at one of them. She half opened her eyes. He listened. She murmured, "I sha'n't move on," and then went to sleep again. A few poor remains of finery were on her; a few tags of ribbon; a displaced chignon; a bonnet that had once been flaunting; little brodequins that had once been neat and pretty; a silk dress that had once not been discoloured, and bespattered with street mud. Frank was touched with pity. He stooped over her, and spoke to her. She awoke, started up, and smileda horrid, ghastly smile, the memory of which haunted him afterwards. "Why do you sleep here?" he asked-a foolish question, because there could be only one reason. "Because I've got no money." "I hide. I come out at night, like the bats." She laughed discordantly. "Give me something, if you have anything." "I've got six shillings. There are two for you." "You're a good sort." But they took the money, and went away. Frank noticed how they crawled like a pair of old women. But the elder to appearance, the younger in reality by five or six years, was the poor worn-out shirtmaker. "Let me get out of this place," said Frank. "I shall go mad if I come here another night." It was in the time when the Embankment She pulled herself together, and got off was building, but not quite finished. Frank the seat, yawning. "You had better finish your sleep." "I have finished. I'm too hungry to sleep any longer. Now I shall go and buy something to eat. I must wake up my sister first, though." She went and shook a figure in black stuff, without a chignon, who lay on the next bench. A woman about thirty-pale, thin, uncomely, long-suffering. "Yes," said the first woman, "you see us both. Tilly was the good one. I'm the bad one. Good or bad, it makes no difference. We've got to starve all the same." Frank shuddered. Is there nothing, then, in virtue ? Can nothing ward off the evils of fate? Is there no power in self-denial, in bitter privation, to change remorseless circumstance, to stave off the miseries allotted by ἀνάγκη ? Good or bad," she repeated, "it's all the same. Just as I told her ten years ago, when I was Kitty Nelaton, and she-" "Good heavens! Am I dreaming?" said Frank, putting his hand to his head. "Yes, Kitty Nelaton, of the Adelphi; and she was Tilly Jones, the shirtmaker. And here we are, you see. Come, Tilly, my dear." "Stop," said Frank. "I've got four shillings more. Take two of them. I've got a watch and chain that I shall pawn by and went down to the grand old river, which was at high tide, and saw-in the clear, bright air of early dawn, when the black pall of smoke over London lifts and is driven away, only to come back again when men rise from their beds-the towers and spires of the mighty city standing out against the blue sky of the morning. He communed with himself. In that bright air, it was impossible to feel unhappy. At the age of five and twenty, it is impossible not to see hope in everything. Besides, there was literally nothing that he could reproach himself with. His life had been blameless. If we are to go by sins, Frank had none;--I speak as a layman. If we are to go by aims and hopes, Frank's were pure and lofty;-I speak as a layman. If to desire only what is good and right be in itself good and right, then was Frank, at this moment, one of the best of God's creatures. Perhaps I speak as a fool, but indeed I think he was. To few is it given to be so single-hearted and so pure. One sorrow he had, and one hope. That his father's name should be tarnished, was his sorrow. To wipe out the stain, and at the same time to win his love, was his hope. But how? He thought of the man with the big head who wanted to employ him. This was clearly not the way to get large sums of money or a great name. But yet but yet. Two shillings in money-now that Kitty and Tilly were provided with the means of getting through the day-was all that he had in his pocket. Besides this, a silver watch and a chain, which might together fetch five pounds at a pawnbroker's. It struck six. "I'm hungry," said Frank, "and I'm dirty. Both are disagreeable things." He left the Embankment, went up into the Strand, and had a cup of coffee and a piece of bread-giving twopence to the waiter, like a good Samaritan. The waiter had never had so much money presented to him, in the way of his calling, in all his life before. But instead of showing gratitude, he ran away to an inner apartment, for fear it might be a mistake. Then he went to the old Roman bath, where he had a plunge in the coldest water in the world, south of the Arctic pole, and came out glowing and strong. It was only half-past six, so he went back to the Embankment, and smoked a cigar, thinking what he should do next. "Time goes very slowly for poor people," he reflected. That, I suppose, is a compensation to them, because it flies so swiftly for the rich." THE DRAMA.-PART I. [This article is abridged from a paper read before the Society for the Encouragement of Fine Arts, by Sir Charles L. Young, Bart., on Thursday, March 7th, 1872.] [T is impossible not to recognize the fact Τ that we live in an age of overwhelming criticism, and that some of us do not find the science quite so gay as a late editor of ONCE A WEEK Would have us believe it to be. Let me say then, at once, that I in no way pretend to come forward as a dramatic critic. I have no deep acquaintance with the great writers of English comedy. My study of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Otway, and other writers has, I fear, been very superficial; and the histrionic giants of the stage flourished long before my time. I can only speak of the drama from the point of view of a constant playgoer for the last ten or twelve years, who knows but little of the arcana of the greenroom, and who has almost invariably paid for his place. My remarks, then, must necessarily be confined to the theatre as it is, and be made from my modern post of vantage in the stalls. The very mention of the word "stalls" compels me to make one preliminary observation; and it is not so much upon the drama as u pon the spectators. There exists a certain class of persons whom we may fairly believe to be sent upon earth for the sole purpose of trying the tempers of their neighbours. At no time and in no place is their peculiar vocation more discernible than when they make the stalls of a theatre their places for gossip, and when they persist in talking and laughing in a manner that entirely prevents the audience in their vicinity from enjoying what is going on upon the stage. Members of the gilded youth of London - heroes of the toothpick school-would make the theatre their afterdinner lounge, and appear to regard drama or comedy merely as an inevitable prelude to that which alone can stir their small souls to enthusiasm―viz., the glittering burlesque. Of all the nuisances, the mar-pleasures of this world, the chattering dandy in the stalls is one of the most insufferable. He would not be tolerated for an instant by the plain and practical people in the pit or gallery; and I think it is high time he should be ejected-or, at all events, taught mannersby the frequenters of the more aristocratic seats. I mention this by way of parenthesis; for it is, after its kind, an obstacle to the value of the theatre which ought to be swept away. I do not think I can introduce the more serious consideration of the drama better than by referring you to the words of Schlegel, in answering the question, What is Dramatic Art? He says "Action is the true enjoyment of life-nay, life itself. Mere passive enjoyments may lull us into a state of listless complacency; but even then, if possessed of the least internal activity, we cannot avoid being soon wearied. The great bulk of mankind, merely from their situation in life, or from their incapacity for extraordinary exertions, are confined within a narrow circle of insignificant operations. Their days flow on in succession, under the sleepy rule of custom; their life advances by an insensible progress; and the bursting torrent of the first passions of youth soon settles into a stagnant marsh. From the discontent which this occasions, they are compelled to have recourse to all sorts of diversions, which uniformly consist in a species of occupation that may be renounced at pleasure; and though a struggle with difficulties, yet with difficulties that are easily surmounted. But of all diversions, the theatre is undoubtedly the most entertaining. Here we may see others act, even when we cannot act to any great purpose ourselves. The highest object of human activity is man; and in the drama we see men measuring their powers with each other, as intellectual and moral beings, either as friends or foes, influencing each other by their opinions, sentiments, and passions, and decisively determining their reciprocal relations and circumstances. The art of the poet accordingly consists in separating from the fable whatever does not essentially belong to it; whatever in the daily necessities of real life, and the petty occupations to which they give rise, interrupts the progress of important actions; and concentrating within a narrow space a number of events calculated to attract the minds of the hearers, and to fill them with attention and expectation. In this manner, he gives us a renovated picture of life-a compendium of whatever is moving and progressive in human existence." Now, if we agree with Schlegel in thus regarding the objects of the art of the dramatic poet, we must concede that the drama affords something more than a mere passing amusement; for it presents an intellectual feast, providing healthy nourishment and gentle stimulants to the mind; and therefore we hold that all thinking men ought to take more than a mere passing interest in the dramatic literature of the day. And no doubt they do; but, unfortunately, their interest is generally found to shape itself either in a sneer at the stage altogether, or in a wail over what they call its decadance, or a complaint that it can never be amongst us anything more than a mere commercial speculation. Now, to sneer at the stage altogether is simply a very narrow-minded way of regarding it; and it is a mark rather of supercilious and superficial observation than of recondite reflection. The stage is at once the oldest and youngest of traditions. A nation that could not enjoy some sort of drama would be a nation of Gradgrinds and M'Choakumchilds. So long as there is anything of a poet upon earth, there must of necessity be a drama. For the business of a poet is to reproduce, in refined language, and amid romantic scenes, the actions of man, and to discover his character, his motives, his aspi | rations. And in order to impress his work more thoroughly upon the minds of his fellow-men, he throws his poem into the form of dialogue, which may be recited by living personages, who are clothed, as the characters of the poem should be, according to period and place, who perform in mimic show the action of the plot, and are surrounded with suggestive scenery. All great poets have tried the dramatic form of poetry, seeming to regard that form as unquestionably the most effective for portraying the romance of life; though we are compelled to add that it is not invariably by their dramatic productions that they have won their fame. The influences of religious feeling, too, which in all ages of the world have been of such great importance, have been brought to bear upon the drama, and have been called in to vilify or to exalt the stage. We all know that many very excellent persons consider the theatre as a synonym for a place I will not name, and hold as an integral part of their belief that an actor is necessarily a lost and abandoned creature; whilst, on the other hand, the vast majority of spectators who witnessed the most marvellous drama of history, as enacted at Ober-Ammergau, have confessed to the almost overpowering influence of the theatrical representation of the origin of Christianity. And the great rite and mystery of Catholic Christendom was and is essentially histrionic, as emphatically the representation, under symbolical forms, of the murder of the founder of the Church. The Greeks and Romans used the theatre for the purpose of exhibiting the power of the poet in delineating the course and effects of human passions, for satirizing the weaknesses and follies of mankind, and for exalting patriotism. The dramatic principle permeates the written history of mankind. It is true that we have heard a great deal about the decadence of the drama latelyrather too much to be pleasant, perhaps, for the self-esteem of the existing dramatic authors. Every elderly individual who may happen to remember John Kemble, and Mrs. Siddons, and Edmund Kean, is perpetually informing us that there are no actors nowadays, and that that does not much matter, for there is nothing for them to act. A certain school of critics love to remind us of the wit and epigram of the older comedies; and these are, indeed, occasionally re |