ignored, or dismissed with a passing comment. No actor (unless very green), and few managers, give the lightest credence to such effusions.

Year after year, we read the same unmeaning twaddle:- "Mr. So-and-So sustained the part with his usual ability; Miss So-and-So was graceful and charming as ever; Mr. lacks spirit; Mr. What's-his-name is a promising young actor," etc. By the by, that word, "promising," is a very favourite one, as it means nothing; a man may be a very bad actor, and yet one day become an excellent one. Apropos of this word. A well-known London artiste, after having sustained for several years a leading position in the Metropolis, and made the tour of the United States, was described by a provincial critic as a promising actor, who, with time and experience, would take a foremost position in his profession.

Performances are frequently criticised by men who have never seen them. Not long ago, a certain comic lecturer was advertised to appear in the town of Son a certain night. A large audience assembled, the time of beginning arrived, but the gentleman did not. Half an hour passed away; the audience grew impatient. A telegram arrived; the train which was conveying the lecturer had broken down forty miles from S――, and he could not arrive in time to gratify the public. The money was returned, and the people dispersed. On the following Saturday, the organ informed its readers that the lecturer delighted a numerous audience with his wit and comicalities. A few weeks back, a north country critic, noticing a performance, wrote that Mr. So-and-So played the leading part with his accustomed care. I was in the theatre on the night in question; the part mentioned was sustained by another gentleman, and Mr. So-and-So played an entirely opposite one. The parts had been reversed by an error of the printer; the judicious and veracious critic had contented himself with reading the play-bill, and amusing his imagination with a fancy critique.

Last winter, there appeared a notice on the "School for Scandal," as performed at the principal theatre of a town celebrated for woollen manufactories. Lady Teazle was played by a well-known London actress; as a matter of course, to her was accorded the lion's share of the praise. The second object of eulogy was the gentleman who sustained the part of Joseph Surface; his dress was praised, his acting was praised-he was the perfection of Josephs? What was the truth? This paragon was dressed in crimson and gold when he should have been attired in black, out of pique to the Charles Surface, to which

character he fancied himself entitled. To say nothing of the impersonation, he was so grossly imperfect in the text that, in the screen scene, the lady could not proceed with the dialogue, and openly reprimanded him before the public. Yet his painstaking acting was particularly the theme of praise. The other characters of the play, several of which were well played, were censured or ignored. This may appear to the unprofessional an exaggeration, but it is a literal truth.

A good specimen of the provincial reporter was lately to be found in a certain Welsh town. He was a penny barber. At the time I first became cognizant of his existence, the leading lady of the theatre was the object of his especial displeasure; her acting was descanted upon with all the virulence of his limited English? Why? Because he had grown sentimental upon the actress who had preceded her, and who probably, in consideration of certain fulsome notices, had not discouraged his attentions. The bereaved swain vented his gall in an endeavour to damage the reputation of a blameless woman, who possesses far greater talent than his Chloe.

In towns that do not boast the inestimable boon of a regular correspondent, the reports are supplied by actors, who praise themselves highly, their friends moderately, and lash their rivals unmercifully.

The editor is not altogether responsible for these abuses; it is impossible for him to guarantee the accuracy of the critiques forwarded under the present arrangement of his staff. But the abuse is none the less monstrous for all that.

The general public has a superstitious reverence for whatever appears in print; it thinks the judgment of a newspaper must be superior to its own. The trash of provincial criticism has its believers, and why not? The ordinary reader cannot know the secret springs that move the machine. The press is a mighty power both for right and wrong, and many an artiste of good talent has suffered bitterly by these petty gnats of printer's ink.

B.

Mrs. Holmes Grey.

BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI.

"Perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart; one of the indivisible primary faculties or sentiments which give direction to the character of man.” -EDGAR POE.

The plaited flower fell separate all to earth
By ring and ring; only the calyx stood
Upon its stalk. The autumn time was come.
Out of the bordering box stiff plantain
grew.

Scarce would the loose trees have afforded
shade,

So lessened was the bulk between their
boughs,

Had there been sun to cast it. In the grass
Rested the moisture of the recent rain.

No one seemed coming; so he walked some steps

Backward, and peered: no sign of any one. He knocked, and at the touch the door unclosed.

"Don't you remember, years ago, your friend,

And correspondent since, John Harling?"

"Oh,

I know you, sir, of course-I did at once."
"Sir! Why, how now?
friends like us?

Between old

Had changed him, and the months and years. The room

Was dim between the window-blinds and dusk.

Now seated-"As you see, John," Grey
began,

"This is a bed-room. I have not had time
To trouble myself yet about the house."
"You are but just arrived, then ?"

"Yes, but just." He was about to say some more, but stopped.

"And now," said Harling, "you shall tell me all

About yourself. And how and where's your wife?

What is it brought you down here? Have
you left

Oxford, in which your practice was so good?
Or are you here on holidays? I come
Upon you by an unexpected chance.
There must be something to be learned, I
know;

Chances are not all chance-work. Tell me
all."

How many letters that begin 'Dear John,' Cha

In your handwriting, I have asked after,
These eight years, in some scores of postes-
restantes!

Too many, I should hope, for us to Sir
Each other now. But only tell me,
Grey"

Grey said, "Come up, come up."

There was a haste About his words and manner, and he seemed To half forget what first he meant to do. He paused at the stairs' foot; then, with a glance

Thrown backward at his friend, who stayed
for him,

He mounted hurriedly, two steps at once.
They had not shaken hands yet. Harling

his

Had proffered with the words he uttered first,

But Grey had not appeared to notice it.

Harling had caught the look of the other's face

Where twilight in the doorway glimmered fresh,

And he had fancied it was pale and worn,
And anxious as with watchings through
the night.

But in the room the light no longer served
For one to see the other, how the weeks

His friend rose up at this; and Harling saw
His knuckles on his forehead, at his hair,
And thought his eyes grew larger through
the dark.

Grey touched him on the shoulder, draw-
ing breath

To speak with, but he then again sat down. "Why, first I ought to hear your news, I think,"

At last he answered, swallowing the gasps Which came into his mouth, and clipped his words.

"Though travellers have a vested right to lie,

I'll take it all on trust." He forged a laugh.

Harling grew certain there was something