sickness perhaps even the unacknowledged conviction that her allegiance would then be transferred elsewhere, and to one who would have bid her daughter sorrow no more for her, if such commands had been any longer possible.-Is not this strange, that we often, in words at least, seem to find our highest consolation after loss, in the belief that the lost are conscious of the survivors' existence? Many thousand mourners in Christendom are saying this to-day. We love to think them present, we speak of them as possessed already of an eternal blessedness: but how are these things reconcileable? Is the corpse

itself more truly pitiable in its weakness than the Spirits of those who love us, and watch, and cannot speak? who foresee perhaps their children's fate with all the yearning of immortal affection, but may not warn, and cannot save them?

The second retarding cause, referable to the source of which I spoke above, was a certain shrinking back, a want of absolute sympathy between Eleanor and Cecilia, against which both strove in vain until Time, adding in the Latin poet's graceful phrase, the years to my sister which he took from Eleanor, had rendered possible an equal, an open, an unrestrained community of affection. I have spoken of years; but the disparity lay rather between character. When in middle girlhood, both had been true girls alike; but not only had Cecilia when passing into the woman grown enjoyed advantages at home far beyond my dear Eleanor, but she had also in childhood shown a thoughtfulness, a depth and peculiarity of disposition which might have authorized the anticipation that her childhood, so far as anything in it deserved to be put away, would pass sooner and, as often has been observed of men of genius, at once more and less completely than with those not so gifted. But I need not enlarge on a point so obvious.

From these, as I may call them, inward reasons, the open profession of my suit to Eleanor and Cecilia's marriage were delayed day by day, why, no one could exactly have said. We were as though every one was in silent expectation of some sign in the heavens-some auspicious omen-some morning in which the sun would rise as it were more brightly and before the almanack to point out the hour's arrival. And meanwhile a third impediment, different in kind, arose. My father's health so far failed that a few months' foreign journey were advised for

its restoration. Perhaps it was over closely pursued study; perhaps over anxious love for one whose health he watched with prescience happily denied to his children: I can now only conjecture. It was arranged at length that I should accompany him through Northern Europe and Austria, and leave him during a month at one of the Tyrolese baths, for a hasty Italian expedition. Robert meanwhile, who had just received Holy Orders, was to take charge of the parish, and watch over his home in our absence.

(To be continued.)

F. T. PALGrave.

ATTACKS ON THE DRAMA.

THERE is a great outcry nowadays about the lack of the literary drama. In other words, we are being continually told that from the majority, if not from all of the most recent productions of the contemporary stage, literature, or what is called literature, is essentially divorced.

By this is meant that however successful a modern play may be— however much it may serve its practical purpose in delighting audiences, and filling a manager's pockets-it is worth little or nothing, when considered from a "library" point of view, and analysed by the student outside the region of the theatre.

Hence it is that we hear with almost irritating frequency of the decadence of the drama from not a few of its so called critics, who while they lament with touching candour the actors of the past, deplore in captious fashion the incompetency of the play-wrights of to-day.

It is worth while considering whether or not there exist any grounds for this complaint which was urged with a vigorous emphasis a few weeks ago by one of the speakers at the interesting celebration of the Marlowe Memorial at Canterbury.

Canon Freemantle-who like a good many Broad Church clergymen professes a keen interest in things theatrical, then took occasion to observe that we had no really great dramatists-none in fact at the present time whose literary powers could be regarded as in any sense of the word worthy of distinction.

Considering that the reverend gentleman thus expressed himself in the presence of men like Pinero and Grundy, we may question for a moment his good taste in giving utterance to such a statement. But it is not our province to criticize his tact, or rather the want of it, but to examine-and if possible, to refute his indictment.

Our primary object, it will be conceded, in going to the Theatre is to

get-as Macready aptly put it—" intelligent recreation "-to be moved by pathos, thrilled by the power of tragedy, or amused by the cheery influence of comedy and farce.

Thus for the time being we are, so to speak, lifted out of ourselves and are, as a consequence, able in the vividly portrayed scenes of the mimic life before us to forget for awhile the cares and worries of the more prosaic-though not necessarily less dramatic surroundings of the workaday world outside.

Why then-it may be asked-need we care one jot-if we are told by the professional pessimist that a play which we have witnessed with pleasure and therefore with profit to ourselves, possesses in reality no lasting claim to be regarded as literature.

Still it is only fair to honestly put the question whether or not-after we have witnessed a play we find ourselves capable of treasuring some striking passage, or some brilliant epigram for its own sake as a piece of writing, and not from any merit in its rendition by the actor, or in other words whether we feel any gratitude at all to the Author for his work, apart from the efforts of the puppets by whom that work is represented. Certainly within the last nine years we have had the finest melodrama of modern times in the perennial "Silver King," the telling incidents of which, coupled with heart-stirring situations, have left a lasting impression on our minds.

But this is not all-for surely the beautiful dream speech uttered from the very anguish of his sin-laden soul by the conscience-stricken Wilfred Denver-and his passionate outburst-echoed by many a repentant man— "Oh God, put back thy universe, and give me yester. day!"-retain a hold upon our memories, for we cannot but regard them as worthy of a place in what is generally understood as "literature."

Again Henry Arthur Jones has also given us in his one act play of "Chatterton " not only a glimpse, remarkable for its beauty and fidelity, of the "sleepless soul that perished in his pride," but in the fervour of the boy-poet's description of the undying power of poetry he has enriched our language with a gem that is without doubt no less literary than dramatic. In the "Dancing Girl" (by the same prolific playwright) now being performed at the Haymarket, there is no lack of the keenest satire and the most polished wit, though it must be admitted that Pinero is unequalled as past master in the latter.

He showed this to perfection in his "Cabinet Minister," whilst in the "Times," produced a few weeks ago at Terry's Theatre, he has with a rare art and consummate skill blended the homely pathos of a Dickens with the cultured cynicism of a Thackeray in the artistic development of his clever and interesting story.

Mr. Pinero has published this last play of his, having followed the example of Mr. Jones, who brought out in September last for the benefit of the reading public his singularly unconventional play of "Saints and Sinners," which is affectionately regarded by its author as quite the best work yet done by him.

It cannot be expected that opinions on this point will be unanimous, but the fact remains-and it is worth recording-that "Saints and Sinners" won the hearty approval of Matthew Arnold by reason of both its literary excellence and minute analysis-almost equal in power of characterization to George Elliot-of certain types-not unfamiliar to us in English middle-class life.

It is a hopeful sign when we find authors publishing their plays, for it means that their aim-undeniably laudable if not uniformly successful-is to furnish the library not less than the theatre, to satisfy in fact the play-goer and the student at one and the same time.

Whilst then we have Jones, Pinero and Grundy, let us not listen to the parrot cry-to the querulous complaint, so often made around us, of the lack of literature on the stage.

Still, whilst closing one's ears to such captious criticism, it is obvious even to the most careless and superficial that the first requisite in a dramatist is a technical knowledge of stage-craft--for which literary excellence-however striking in its originality, can never be accepted as a satisfactory substitute.

Hence it not unfrequently happens that a novelist-whose works are essentially dramatic-fails as a writer for the stage.

As the latest instance of the truth of this we may take Miss Braddon, whose powerful book "Like and Unlike," experienced in theatrical parlance a "frost" when under the title of "For Better or Worse," it was presented to the exacting play-goer.

Again what writer of fiction was ever more thrillingly dramatic than Wilkie Collins? Yet there has seldom been a greater, and we are bound