hearts. It may partly be accounted for by the fact that for the purposes of an ambitious actor bad plays are the best.

In reading actors' lives, nothing strikes you more than their delight in making a hit in some part nobody ever thought anything of before. Garrick was proud past all endurance of his Beverley in the Gamester, and one can easily see why. Until people saw Garrick's Beverley, they didn't think there was anything in the Gamester; nor was there, except what Garrick put there.* This is called creating a part, and he is the greatest actor who creates most parts.

* This illustration is not a very happy one, for as an accomplished critic has pointed out in the St. James's Gazette, Moore's play was written especially for Mr. Garrick, and was first made known to the public by Mr. Garrick. The play was, however, subsequently printed, and to be had of all booksellers; and the observations in the text would therefore hold good of anyone who put off seeing the play until he had read it. But whether there was any person so ill-advised I cannot say.

But genius in the author of the play is a terrible obstacle in the way of an actor who aspires to identify himself once and for all with the leading part in it. Mr. Irving may act Hamlet well or ill-and, for my part, I think he acts it exceedingly well-but behind Mr. Irving's Hamlet, as behind everybody else's Hamlet, there looms a greater Hamlet than them all-Shakespeare's Hamlet, the real Hamlet.

But Mr. Irving's Mathias is quite another kettle of fish, all of Mr. Irving's own catching. Who ever, on leaving the Lyceum, after seeing The Bells, was heard to exclaim, 'It is all mighty fine; but that is not my idea of Mathias'? Do not we all feel that without Mr. Irving there could be no Mathias?

We best like doing what we do best and an actor is not to be blamed for preferring the task of

making much of a very little to that of making little of a great deal.

As for actresses, it surely would be the height of ungenerosity to blame a woman for following the only regular profession commanding fame and fortune the kind consideration of man has left open to her. For two centuries women have been free to follow this profession, onerous and exacting though it be, and by doing so have won the rapturous applause of generations of men, who are all ready enough to believe that where their pleasure is involved, no risks of life or honour are too great for a woman to run. It is only when the latter, tired of the shams of life, would pursue the realities, that we become alive to the fact-hitherto, I suppose, studiously concealed from us -how frail and feeble a creature she is. Lastly, it must not be forgotten that we are discussing a question of

casuistry, one which is 'stuff o' the conscience,' and where consequently words are all important.

Is an actor's calling an eminently worthy one?-that is the question. It may be lawful, useful, delightful. but is it worthy?

An actor's life is an artist's life. No artist, however eminent, has more than one life, or does anything worth doing in that life, unless he is prepared to spend it royally in the service of his art, caring for nought else. Is an actor's art worth the price? I answer, No!

A ROGUE'S MEMOIRS.

ONE is often tempted of the devil to forswear the study of history altogether as the pursuit of the Unknowable. 'How is it possible,' he whispers in our ear, as we stand gloomily regarding the portly calfbound volumes without which no gentleman's library is complete, ‘how 'is it possible to suppose that you ' have there, on your shelves— 'the actual facts of history—a true ' record of what men, dead long ago, ' felt and thought?' Yet, if we have not, I for one, though of a literary turn, would sooner spent my leisure playing skittles with boors than in