that there is something wrong about that man's social habits. I will not go so far as to say that an incapacity for breakfast denotes an unquiet conscience, but I may hazard the guess that it is principally due to an unwise indulgence overnight. As to the man who complains that he has no time for breakfast, the obvious retort is, why don't you get up earlier? One great secret of success and happiness in life is never to be in a hurry. We often hear people complain that they have very little time to do this or that in. It will generally be found on examination that these people have no idea of how properly to economise their time, and they usually are insanely desirous of doing several things at once. The consequence is that they seldom or never do any one thing well. The result of their actions is, so to speak, underdone, and fails to give satisfaction. To persons who are conscious of this failing and I think that very many persons must be conscious of it in their hearts-I would say, try honestly to conquer this besetting sin, and begin with breakfast. And in the first place, don't be in a hurry with your correspondence. Make it a rule never even to look at your letters till you have finished breakfast. If you open all the envelopes, you are sure to find that the contents of some will either annoy you in a manner that makes you disagreeable or sulky, or will put you in a high state of excitement, both of which mental states are fatal to any satisfactory manner of breaking your fast. Let your meal be your first consideration; that, reasonably partaken of and thoroughly enjoyed, will render you far more fit to cope with the anxieties or to curb the anticipations which the postman may have brought you. Never forget the abominable manner in which,

according to Shakespeare, King Henry VIII. gave to Cardinal Wolsey packet after packet, saying, "Read this-then this-and then to breakfast with what appetite you may." Rather remember Macbeth's grace: "May good digestion wait on appetite-and health on both!"

'I could say a great deal more, sir; indeed, I could wax eloquent upon this subject, but I have already trespassed too much upon your valuable time, and therefore, despite my own admonition, I hasten to sign myself

'Your obedient Servant,

'P. Q.'

I confess that I had intended to take up the subject of breakfast— eminently social as it ought to be -but my correspondent has saved me a great deal of trouble, and therefore I leave the matter in the fragmentary form in which he has put it. I will content myself with taking up his parable so far as regards hurry. Perhaps the greatest curse of the age in which we live is the breathless haste with which we perform almost every important action of our lives; nay, even the unimportant actions become of consequence by reason of the rapidity which we think it necessary to bring to bear upon them. The commonest excuse of the present day is, 'I really have not time' to do this or that. I have not a moment to spare' is the hasty statement which we hear twenty times a day. Well, I can give you just two or three minutes' is the reply of the business man whose advice you wish for gratis. If the required interview has anything to do with the possible and probable acquisition of money, the usual hurry will, to a certain extent, calm down, because the great hurry of our time is to get a good place in

the race for wealth, and breathing time for the purpose of considering the ground is not looked upon as wasted. Hurry extends even to religion. The legislature has recognised the popular demand, and has relaxed the Act of Uniformity in order that the services of the Church may be shortened. And what a sign, too, of universal hurry is the telegraph system! That system is, doubtless, far from perfect yet, and before very long we shall in all probability find ourselves employing the electric wire for the greater part of our correspondence, and our private houses will be fitted with a magnetic system which will entirely supersede the use of bells. For instance, more butter is wanted at breakfast, the fact is communicated to the domestic offices by electricity and the butter is brought without the necessity of verbal order, and so at least fifty per cent. of time is gained. The time will come when we shall wonder how people could possibly have tolerated the anxiety of waiting forty-eight hours for a reply to a letter. Such a state of things will soon be almost as incomprehensible as going from London to York by mail coach. There is one aspect of hurry, however, in which a reaction appears to be setting in. Desirous as we may be of getting over the ground quickly when we are travelling from place to place, an alarming chapter of railway accidents is inducing us to believe that after all our lives and limbs are worth some consideration, and that travelling at sixty miles an hour has decided drawbacks so long as there is the chance of colliding with a shunting goods train. Perhaps a little further reflection may lead us to think that speed in other phases of existence is not always compatible with safety, and that after all there

is something to be said in favour of the habits of the tortoise. My correspondent at the conclusion of his letter quotes Macbeth, and I may quote him again. Macbeth says: If 'twere done, then 'twere well it were done quickly;' but then that misguided chieftain had got a murder in his eye, and therefore his practice makes against the theory.

'The more haste, the less speed,' is an old saying, but, like many old sayings, its truthfulness frequently requires modification. Sometimes we hear somebody say, 'Oh, if I had not been in quite such a hurry!' but more frequently we hear people exclaim, 'Oh, if we had only been a little quicker!" Where is it all to end? In diseased hearts and softened brains, or in journeys to the moon, as suggested in M. Jules Verne's amusing scientific puzzle? Eminently fitted for these days is this work entitled, 'A Trip to the Moon in Ninety-seven Hours,' and although its playfulness is apparent, and its gentle irony wholly unconcealed, we may well question whether it will not be most seriously considered by many of our enthusiastic minds. According to M. Jules Verne, two American gentlemen and one Frenchman (nothing marvellous and eccentric could ever be accomplished unless there were a Frenchman concerned in it somehow or other) fit up a peaceful projectile, and cause themselves to be shot out of a gun nine hundred feet long, charged with two hundred thousand pounds of gun cotton, in an accurately calculated direction towards the moon. They arrive within four miles of their destination, but their calculations are unfortunately upset by the disturbing

influences of a vagabond meteoric body, and so they are dragged within the influence of the earth again, and eventually tumble with a terrific splash in the Pacific Ocean. The hollow projectile having descended to a considerable depth, asserts its right to float, and the three adventurers are eventually picked up safe and sound. If the object of the author was to impart scientific knowledge in a highly popular form, it must be conceded that he has amply gained his end. But in these

days of Peculiar People, Christadelphians, Little Children Baptists, Spirit-rappers, and other oddities, it is much to be feared that M. Verne will have to be responsible for further additions to our already crowded lunatic asylums. No doubt it would be very interesting to talk to somebody who had journeyed to the moon and back, but while there are still so many problems to be solved in our own terrestrial globe, it is as well, perhaps, not to encourage more curious enthusiasts.

We are often told that the great aim of the modern dramatist should be to amuse. Experienced managers warn the aspirant to dramatic fame that it was all very well for Shakespeare to write tragedies; he happens to have succeeded, and has got a good name, is profoundly believed in by the British public, and it is occasionally a paying thing to 'revive' him, especially as some of his productions can be easily manipulated to suit modern taste, thereby proving that he was not merely for an age, but for all time. But though Shakespeare still lives in his writings, he is, unfortunately, unique, and as far as we can see, the prophecy has been fulfilled: 'we

shall not look upon his like again.' And so we are told that the age of tragedy is past, and that if 'Macbeth' or 'Othello' are to be reproduced, they certainly must not dream of talking blank verse, and their actions must be cast in an altogether different mould. Indeed, it is far better to eschew such types entirely-Othello and Iago must take the shape of John Mildmay and Captain Hawkesley in 'Still Waters Run Deep;' King Lear becomes a droning, crooning father who bewails the vicious habits of a wayward son, and is depicted in modern times as Daddy Hardcastle or Simon in "The Porter's Knot.' Macbeth finds his modern representative in the scheming adventurer, bank forger, and general gentlemanly swindler, and Lady Macbeth becomes simply the worldly mother, whose one object in life is to marry her daughters well. And from the managerial point of view, no doubt, this state of things is right. The public, it is alleged, will only pay to be amused. A dash of seriousness here and there is tolerated as a foil to set off the comicality which, at given intervals, is to convulse us with laughter, but seriousness in modern drama is not to be the end for which the dramatist should strive; it must merely be an accessory to the general amusement. Hence it comes to pass that we hear so much about idyllic sketches, lifelike comedies, and general patchwork business, which is recommended to us by the epithets charming, elegant, and graceful. And, beyond all things, it is requisite that the dialogue should be sparkling, and that the comedians should be provided with a continuous flow of brilliant repartee. And, consequently, we are frequently summoned to witness comedies which a few play-goers

have not hesitated to describe as teacup and saucery, milk and watery, and very drawing-roomy. Whether this school of dramatist will survive long is a speculation upon which it is obviously unnecessary to enter. It serves its present purpose, and that, for the time, is an unanswerable argument in its favour. To this school, however, two of the ablest of living dramatists certainly do not belong. I refer to Mr. Tom Taylor and to Mr. Charles Reade; and both of these writers are deservedly popular and successful. At the Globe Theatre, two excellent plays by the former writer have run together for some time; and at the Queen's Theatre, Mr. Charles Reade has recently given to us a quaint, but singularly powerful dramatic composition, entitled The Wandering Heir.' Never were critics more thoroughly puzzled to know what to say than were the gentlemen who do the theatres for the daily papers, and who employed Sunday, the 16th of November last, in considering Mr. Reade's drama instead, it is to be feared, of going to church. Most of the new plays to which we are accustomed are quiet in their story, neat in their construction, models of propriety, and one scene is sufficient for each act. Mr. Reade comes thundering down upon us with a fiveact play of the good old sort, with plenty of change of scene, and four-and-twenty distinct characters presented to the audience, and with a considerable amount of action for each and every performer. Nobody can complain that there is any lack of incident, indeed the spectator is almost breathless in his expectation of what is going to happen next; but, at the same time, the extremes of sensation are scrupulously avoided. And it is right

to add that no single incident is dragged in for its own sake, or for the mere purpose of stage effect, but all the actions of the characters bear intimate relation to the story. The strange history of the Hon. James Annesley is now too well known to the public through Mr. Reade's tale, which composed the Christmas Number of the Graphic' for 1872, to require that I should now give an outline of the story, and I am bound to say, that as far as the drama is concerned, however remarkable Mr. Annesley's adventures may be, their chief interest for us, the spectators in the auditorium, certainly arises from the fact that Miss Philippa Chester was so deeply implicated in them. Never has Mrs. John Wood been seen to such advantage as in this character. Her vivacity and intelligence are delightful to witness at a time when there is a sad dearth of clever actresses. Not one syllable of Mr. Reade's terse and admirable dialogue loses its point and force when it is Mrs. John Wood's turn to speak. She identifies herself completely with the part, she becomes the character she assumes, and thus has achieved one of the highest artistic triumphs it has been my happy lot to witness. That actresses should assume male attire is almost de rigueur in one form of the popular drama, and the result to refined minds generally brings a sensation of disgust; but Mrs. John Wood in her disguise carries the assumption of the opposite sex in a manner which commands our admiration of her tact and talent. Whether the 'Wandering Heir' will become eventually a stock piece upon the English stage is a question about which there may certainly be two opinions, but so long as Mrs. John Wood plays the heroine, there is, in my

humble opinion, no room for argument.

A word or two as to the other actors. Most of the performers are new to London, and deserved to be welcomed; and, in particular, I am anxious to say that Mr. E. Leathes played the hero's part in a forcible, but quiet and unassuming manner. With increased experience, there are good hopes that this young and promising actor may be able to fill a void, and become an excellent lover. Somehow or other, English actors never seem to know how to make love with proper stage effect. As a rule, they are either abominably extravagant or immoderately shy. Of deep tenderness and repressed passion they usually appear to know nothing at all. They have a great deal to study before they can touch French actors in this respect. And I should advise Mr. Leathes to employ his first holiday in a trip to Paris, and see how they do that sort of thing there. It is, I think, rather a disgrace to us that we have no actor who can at all compete with Mr. Fechter, in his earlier days, at love-making. Mr. C. A. Cowdery, in the small part of M'Carthy, the planter, is worthy of notice, though his Americanism appears to be somewhat conventional. Mr. G. Vincent, as Rowley, the villain of the drama, is scarcely what Mr. G. Vincent was, if he is the same individual who used to play Moss in the Ticket-of-Leave Man.' He is far too much of the bloodand-murder sort, and reminds us too much of the Midnight Spectre' and Richardson's Show generally. Mr. S. Artaud, as the Quaker, Jedediah Surefoot, acts with care, and doubtless quite fulfils the author's idea. Jip, the nigger, is amusingly performed by Mr. Fred Irish; and it is no

discouragement to him to say that he does not quite come up to Mr. G. Belmore's impersonation of Mr. Plato in the Adelphi drama of Black and White,' produced under Mr. Fechter's régime. As Chief Justice Eyre, Mr. W. D. Gresham quite bears out his reputation of being one of the most careful and conscientious actors of small character parts which we possess. The only other impersonation it is necessary to notice is that of Mrs. Seymour, the manageress of the Queen's Theatre, as the faithful Irishwoman, Betty Purcell. In this part she is excellent, and we can only regret that she has been absent from the London stage so long. I remember well seeing her play in the provinces, some years ago, Peg Woffington in 'Masks and Faces;' and I am confident that I am only expressing the sentiments of many other play-goers when I say that I most earnestly hope to see her in some such part again before very long, without any prejudice to the run of the Wandering Heir.'

The story of the Wandering Heir' is founded upon historical facts; but, unless my memory deceives me, some excellent person in the country raised a discussion upon the tale in the columns of the Athenæum,' and that discussion created the characteristic preface to the author's latest novel, 'A Simpleton,' which most readers of London Society' remember with delight. In this preface Mr. Reade, as briefly as the occasion requires, replies to a vague charge of plagiarism that has been brought against him. He admits that he borrows his facts from every accessible source, but emphatically denies that that makes him a plagiarist. The 'pla