to open upon us an invasion of the provincials. The recently-burned Winter Garden was almost without an actor with the gait, speech or manners of a Christian. The Merchant of Venice, produced with so much lavish pictorial splendor, was never so wretchedly acted on the metropolitan boards. Of course this reference is not to Booth. Madame Scheller, who is at times excellent, was simply ridiculous as Portia—although she read the Plea for Mercy with fine accent and good discretion—and all the others were hopelessly incompetent. We neither desire nor need new theatres merely to afford provincial adventurers an opportunity to exhibit of what poor stuff men and woman are sometimes made.
The French actors are such consummate actors, because they breathe, think, feel, know and live art, and art only. They are born under its domain, live penetrated through and through by its influence, and are infused by a mastering enthusiasm in behalf of it.
THE SNOW.
[see illustration.]
SHE comes from shadow-land.
With pale, uplifted hand,
And footsteps slow—
Hail, Lady of the Snow!
Wide spread her garments white,
And float her tresses light,
In faintest air—
Hail to thee, Lady fair!
High hang the curtains, gray
Of cloud-land far away,
With waving fold—
Hail to thee, Lady cold!
Far stretch the woodlands dim;
They swell a mighty hymn,
And grand and slow—
Hail, pale one of the Snow!
Beneath her footsteps light,
The meadows glimmer white;
Peace reigns below—
Hail, Lady of the Snow!
