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there he comes, the shrewd priest-statesman-leaning upon the arm of Joseph, the Capuchin. He was dressed in cardinal robes, with deep lace collar and cuffs, and wore long, iron-grey hair, and French moustache, and imperial. He began speaking his lines with perfect ease as if entirely unconscious of the hearty applause. Booth's smooth, melodious voice seems still an inseparable attribute of the oily "old fox," as Baradas calls him; and when, at the close of the first act, it rose in a passion of patriotism in the lines,

"-Sweet France,

Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me,"

we feel that thrill of enthusiasm which makes us, for the future, not the actor's critics, but his intense admirers. The closing lines left a keen feeling of regret and one did not reflect, in those boyhood days, that Julie-unsullied rose of girlhood, loveliest of all maids of Francewore rouge upon her cheeks and perhaps had a great, ugly patch of it upon her heart.

And Hamlet-can one ever forget Booth's Hamlet? He played the part quite without make-up, and it was a pleasure to see him thoroughly undisguised, though the ravages of time were all too painfully evident. The melancholy prince was, in Booth's interpretation, the "Prince of gentlemen," and it was most fitting that so ideal a conception could be embodied in the man of all men who made the theatre a temple. With him as high priest, its Holy of Holies was never defiled. The part of Hamlet seemed written for him, so perfectly did it fit his endowments of person and intellect. Upon one occasion, some five years ago, I remember him returning after the passionate "Get thee to a nunnery," in the soliloquy scene, and kissing the bowed head of Ophelia. It was an expression of the deepest things in the man and in the character he played. Indeed it was in that wonderful depth of nature that he surpassed every actor of his day. No wonder the manly Horatio could give unqualified allegiance to such a Hamlet. And Ophelia, gentle lady,

went mad, and finally killed herself, for grief and love of him. Yet what a sublimity there was in the graceful person as he lay stabbed by Laertes' poisoned weapon.

"The rest is silence."

Alas, we have heard those lips pronounce the words for the last time.

Into nearly every part he played Booth infused some of his own nobility. As Othello he completely won our sympathy, as Brutus he was our ideal of a noble Roman, as Macbeth he excited the profoundest pity. But as Shylock and Iago he awakened the deepest hatred. Nevertheless it was one of his greatest successes, as an actor, that none of his rôles were more flawlessly done than these. They were triumphs of art.

Of Booth's King Lear it may be said the highest pinnacle of his power was reached. Mr. Winter thought this would have been considered his highest achievement had not his Hamlet been an accepted ideal. Booth's appearance as Lear was that of a man in lusty old age. He was

a kingly figure, and the meagre five feet eight inches did not detract from the royalty of his person. It was Booth's aim to develop, in the barbarous king, that verge between madness and sanity which is, perhaps, the saddest thing, and this appeared with wonderful power in the reunion with Cordelia. In the storm-scenes and in the terrible curse he was, despite his ungovernable rage, the incarnation of majesty; upon the heath with the blind Gloster he was a raving madman, the recollection of whom is haunting; and yet there rings through the memory of it all the heartbroken cry,

"Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little."

Those who heard that wail of anguish will never forget it this side of the grave,

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Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little."

There is all the human agony in that cry.

One, the last performance, will always linger tenderly in memory. Booth was playing Richelieu at the Broad

way Theater, New York, and the performance was the first after Mr. Barrett's untimely death. We passed his picture draped in mourning upon an easel in the lobby and the noble eyes of Booth in the frame opposite looked over at it sadly, some one thought, as David might have looked at the dead face of Jonathan.

Upon the opening of the play it became evident that our actor was much broken, the weakness of the aged Cardinal was too real. It was indeed a painful sight. One old playgoer left the theater at the end of the first act with a look of deep emotion on his face. Although intellect was triumphant, and hidden depths of the play were marvellously revealed, some of us were not sorry to see the last act close.

The audience lingered, the curtain lifted once more, and again the Prince of Players stood before us bowing gravely. His eyes swept the balcony where we sat-those great majestic eyes, who can forget them ?-then the curtain fell.

Chauncey Wetmore Wells.

"LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW."

THE

HE child was the first to speak, thus breaking the long silence of the afternoon. But she only uttered a few unintelligible words, and then went off to sleep with her chubby little hand lying gracefully across her forehead. She had been sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a very dilapidated grey horse which, obedient to her commands, went along rather unsteadily on three wheels. The horse had finally lost his equilibrium, and in falling over had injured himself to the extent of breaking off one of his very pointed wooden ears, a loss which did not tend to improve his already dishevelled appearance. The "Professor," who was sitting at a desk in one corner of the room, looked around and, with a peculiar smile upon his face, folded his overcoat and placed it gently under the child's head. The horse, too, received a share of his attention, and, taking him over to the desk where he looked strangely incongruous among the scientific books and manuscripts, the "Professor" devoted his time to repairing his broken ear and touching him up in general.

They called him the "Professor" partly out of courtesy, partly out of custom, and partly because of his kind, finelooking face. He had been a professor once, a long time ago, so many years ago that the present generation of students at the University knew almost nothing about him. They only saw occasionally an old, white-haired man walking about the college grounds and trying to amuse a sad-eyed, thoughtful little girl. And so quickly does the mind of youth turn from one thing to another that they did not see the pathetic side of it, or if they noticed it at all, they hastened to think of something brighter and more interesting. And so, gradually, he had passed out of the life of the University. He knew that he was part of its past history, and that as such he was really part of the University now. No decree of the Faculty or the Corporation could deprive him of this. But he knew

also, and this was a sadder thought,-that they called him "half crazy," and that younger men had taken the place he used to fill. But he did not care so much. He had the memories of the old days to console him, and these were very pleasant. Yet there were some things he could not recollect, try as he would, and in a great many things his ideas were different, he feared, from the ideas of other men.

"I wish I could buy Marjorie a new toy," he said, as he critically surveyed the horse he had been mending. Somehow the ink spots he had been putting on with his pen looked anything but lifelike. It was really a very dilapidated toy. "The strangest part of it all," he reflected, "is that she does not seem to mind. But I'd like to get her something new to brighten up her life. But it's not much. use thinking of that. I'll never be rich. It isn't the men who think in this world who get rich, and I don't go about things in the right way, I know."

He put the horse back where he had found it, at Marjorie's side, and then he took one of the big dusty books down from the bookshelf in the corner. But he did not

read long; his mind reverted to the same subject, to the little girl who was sleeping on the floor. "She ought to go to school, I suppose, and learn all the things they would teach her there. I know that I can't teach her; I haven't been able to teach myself yet. She ought to be taught to be a good, Christian little girl, so that when she grows up she may be like the rest of the world. It does not do to be different from the rest of the world, I find. I did wrong, of course, to refuse when her aunt proposed to send her. Her aunt was a good woman."

The "Professor" wiped his spectacles, and kept repeating the last sentence over and over again, as if trying to convince himself that such was really the case. He seemed to doubt it in spite of himself. His sister was a good woman in her way, he knew, but when she had proposed to send Marjorie to school he had not been able to let her go. He had felt that he did not want to have her taught what he himself did not believe. When he had spent his

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