away now by a whirlwind of passion, and now by a torrent of agony that is ended only by death. One who was present at Miss O'Neill's first performance in London describes how wonderfully she realised the part:—
"At first she was sportive and natural, a joyous caressing child. Then, when the first touch of love came to her, she changed, in an almost imperceptible manner. Her movements became more voluptuous, her lace seemed to alter in expression, it breathed a secret happiness. She expanded, until, like a beautiful flower, she burst into full bloom. By degrees, when sorrow added its crowning and sacred imprint to her passion, she managed to convey to the spectator the most exquisite tenderness. Her despair was heartbreaking … her scream was like an electric shock."
Only one critic, Reynolds, the dramatist, ventured a word of disparagement by saying " that her acting was of too boisterous and vehement a character," and he admits that in this opinion he was in a minority.
At the close of the first performance of "Romeo and Juliet," it was announced that the "Merry Wives of Windsor," would be acted the following night, but such a chorus of cries arose of "Juliet! Juliet!" that the former play had to be substituted. Nothing succeeds like success, and from
