reading them, can be attached to their opinion at page 8 of the report, that a just balance has been maintained in the design, so that out of a given set of conditions a good result has been obtained? It is remarkable, too, that one of these conditions, the limited width of the "Inflexible," they reject as unnecessary in their concluding pages. They appear to consider that as the armoured citadel may be pierced, and the unarmoured ends can be destroyed, these two elements of danger somehow balance each other, and they endeavour to prove, by arguments which they in the last pages of their report demonstrate to be inconclusive, that it is not possible to obtain what the 'Inflexible's' design promised-a central citadel and under-water shot-proof decked ship, which should, when plated with thick armour, preserve a secure reserve of buoyancy and stability, deriving no assistance from its unarmoured ends, without sacrificing other matters of even greater moment. It is in dealing with this part of the subject that I conceive the assistance of an experienced naval architect accustomed to design ironclad ships would have been of great value. I believe he could have shown the committee that they were going in the wrong direction in attempting to find what they wanted by adding length to the citadel and taking thickness from the armour, as if this were the only alternative which could be followed. They were probably led into this direction by the observations of the Director of Naval Construction, as given in the Parliamentary paper 'Inflexible,' from which he seems to think that Mr. Reed's suggestions could only be met in this way. Over this ground it is not necessary to follow the committee; the complete answer to their arguments will be found in their own recommendation to increase the beam of future Inflexibles.

While I freely admit that no perfect ship of war was ever built, and that, by fixing the critic's attention on one particular point to the exclusion of all others, any ship in the world may be discredited, no one can say that the facts pointed out by this committee are the result of captious criticism, or that they have shown any undue disposition to construe doubtful points in a sense adverse to the design. Armed with the facts contained in this report, and undeterred by opinions or speculations in seeming opposition to these facts, the public, through Parliament, must insist on an exhaustive consideration of the committee's suggestions before proceeding further with the 'Ajax' and 'Agamemnon,' or permitting the design of the new Inflexible' to be gone on with. They must insist upon such remedies being applied to the 'Inflexible' herself as are possible under the circumstances, and they would do well to bring home to the conviction of the Admiralty that such investigations as the Inflexible's' committee have prosecuted must be undertaken by an independent tribunal before and not after the construction of new types of ships.

ROBERT SPENCER ROBINSON.

MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH.

FROM CONTEMPORARY NOTES BY GEORGE JOSEPH BELL.

WHEN any great work of art perishes from among us, we not only grieve, but we rebel against the decree of fate. The wars, the traffic, the mechanical arts of old, nay even the men and women, wither into an oblivion which is not painful but kindly. We sigh and smile and acquiesce-better so, for here was nothing fitted to endure for ever. They had their time, as we have ours, and who would wish that the strife, the bustle, the men of to-day should last for ever? But the destruction of any beautiful thing, whether it be the work of art or nature, fills us, on the contrary, with sickening regret. The temple, statue, picture gone imply a loss of joy to uncounted gene rations. We suffer real pain when we think of lost tragedies by Sophocles, and our whole classical system of education is a protest that though kingdoms, peoples, tongues may die, their works of beauty shall endure.

If this be our feeling as to the more durable works of art, what shall we say of those triumphs which by their very nature last no longer than the action which creates them-the triumphs of the orator, the singer, or the actor? There is an anodyne in the words 'must be so,' 'inevitable,' and there is even some absurdity in longing for the impossible. This anodyne and our sense of humour temper the unhappiness we feel when, after hearing some great performance, we leave the theatre and think, Well, this great thing has been, and all that is now left of it is the feeble print upon my brain, the little thrill which memory will send along my nerves, mine and my neighbours'; as we live longer the print and thrill must grow feebler, and when we pass away the impress of the great artist will vanish from the world.' The regret that a great art should in its nature be transitory explains the lively interest which many feel in reading anecdotes or descriptions of a great actor, and it is this feeling which prompts the publication of the following notes on Mrs. Siddons' acting made by an eye-witness of ability and true artistic feeling.

The public of to-day are perhaps hardly aware of the height to which the art of acting may rise. Yet those who have been familiar with the creations of Rachel and Salvini will not only credit the assertion that the genius of Mrs. Siddons in representing the charac

ters of Murphy, Lillo, Southerne, and Otway, was greatly superior to that of the writers, but that, even when representing Shakespeare, she supplied much which enriched the conceptions of the poet. To-day we often speak of an actor as the mere interpreter of Shakespeare. We are apt to imagine that there is some one Hamlet or Lady Macbeth, a creature of Shakespeare's brain, an eidolon which the actor must of necessity endeavour to represent, his success being measured by the approach which he makes to this unattainable ideal. Those, however, who have seen the acting of the last thirty years in Paris will know that this view of the actor's province is far from true when he interprets even the best modern authors. They know that an actor, when he receives the manuscript, has to create his part in the sense of conceiving a complete human being who, under the given circumstances, employs the words which the author has supplied. They know that no critic could, by reading a play, evolve a portrait of the man whom an original actor will represent as the embodiment of some new part. They know that each new actor of real merit recreates the persons of the older drama, sending traditions to the winds and producing a new person on the stage using the old words, but with marvellous differences of manner, voice, gesture and intention. They know that there is not merely one good way of representing a great part, but as many ways as there are great actors. Each actor is bound so to fashion his conception that his own physical attributes and mental powers will lend themselves to its execution, and thus the great parts on the French stage have bound up with them a long series of portraits each representing the creation of a separate actor-all the creations good and to be judged of on their own merits, not by reference simply to the mind of the author.

In small parts, and in the lower walks of the art, the English public will admit this truth readily. No one can suppose that the writer of Rip van Winkle conceived his man with the tones and gestures which we find so admirable in Mr. Jefferson; but the majesty of Shakespeare's name overawes us when we hear that a Mrs. Siddons created a part which Shakespeare wrote-when we are told that an actor's first business is not to think how Shakespeare conceived his character as standing or looking, but how he, the actor, can make a real human being stand and look while speaking Shakespeare's words. Yet the words of the part do not by themselves supply the actor with one-hundredth part of the actions he has to perform. Every single word has to be spoken with just intonation and emphasis, while not a single intonation or emphasis is indicated by the printed copy. The actor must find the expression of face, the attitude of body, the action of the limbs, the pauses, the hurries-the life, in fact. There is no logical process by which all these things can be evolved out of the mere words of a part. The actor must go direct to nature and his own heart for the tones and action by which he is to move his

audience; these his author cannot give him, and in creating these, if he be a great actor, his art may be supremely great.

The distinction between the mechanical arts and what are commonly called the fine arts lies in the creation or invention required by the artist as compared with the skill or dexterity which are alone required by the craftsman. The one copies or executes; the other creates, invents, or finds the treasure which he gives to the world. Arts are great or small as the thing created is noble or petty; the artist is true or false as he possesses more or less of this creative power, for the exercise of which he in all cases requires skill more or less mechanical, which technical skill is often called 'art' as if there were no other. This technical skill can be taught and must be learned

by every artist. The poetic creative power can never be taught,

though in a sense it is learned from every sight, sound, and feeling; but this greater art is learned unconsciously, and few have the power to learn the lesson.

Judged by this canon, the art of the actor may claim high rank whenever its scope is the presentment of the highest human types. To truly great actors, the words they have to speak are but opportunities of creating these types-opportunities in the sense that a beautiful model, a fine landscape, are opportunities to the painter. In these he finds his picture, in those the actor finds his person; but the dramatist does less for the actor than nature for the painter. It is the involuntary unconscious perception of this truth which makes men accord a generous recognition to artists such as Mrs. Siddons while treating, not without justice, the rank and file of the profession as mere skilled workmen.

It is probable, nay certain, that in writing the words to be uttered by each character, a great author has vividly present to his mind an ideal man or woman speaking these with natural and effective tones and gestures-perhaps in Shakespeare's case, though not in others, the best tones and gestures possible; perhaps, however, with tones and gestures so old-fashioned that they would not move us now; what is certain is that we have no means of discovering these; indeed, he could not himself have imparted them to a fellow-actor. Moreover, when writing the words of Macbeth, he cannot have had present to his mind all the gestures and expressions of Lady Macbeth as she listened. Yet this by-play of the great actress was such that the audience, looking at her, forgot to listen to Macbeth. Corneille never thought of how Camille would listen to the account of the death of her lover in Les Horaces, or, if he thought of it, his conception must have been a mere sketch as compared with the long and marvellous scene which Rachel, playing the part, showed to the astonished audience.

In truth, the spectators do not know the marvellous study which a great actor applies to every word of a speech. Some think that

the study consists in finding out what the author meant the hero to say or express by given words. Sometimes this demands study; more often with great writers it is as plain as can be, requiring no study. When the meaning is understood, next comes the consideration of the feeling which the speech implies or requires in the speaker. The conception of this is far more difficult than the simple interpretation of the words, and will alter with each new actor; not differing toto calo, but differing in shade, colour, and intensity. Any one of us can understand the reasoning in To be or not to be.' Very few of us can form any vivid conception of the state of Hamlet's mind, sentence by sentence, word by word, as he utters them. Of the few who can form any conception beyond a mere colourless, shadeless, pointless impression of gloom or bitterness, each one must of necessity form a distinct and new conception. In order that such a speech may sway a house, it must represent a series of emotions, each intense, natural, and noble-each succeeding the other in a natural sequence. After the speech has been understood and the feelings to which it corresponds conceived, comes a task of ineffable difficulty -that of finding tones, look, and action, which shall represent those feelings. The author gives an outline, which the actor must fill up with colour, light, and shade, so as to show a concrete fact; and no two actors can or ought to do this in one and the same way. Let any reader who doubts this-who thinks, for instance, that there is some one Hamlet, Shakespeare's Hamlet, who could only speak the speech in one attitude, with one set of tones-open the book, and in the solitude of his chamber try first to find out the emotions which Shakespeare meant his Hamlet to feel, and then try to express those emotions in tones which would indicate them to others. If honest and clever, he will find out after half an hour's study how little the author has done for the actor, how much the actor is called upon to do for the author.

These views will find their illustration in the remarkable notes by Professor G. J. Bell on Mrs. Siddons' acting, which are now pub lished for the first time, having been kindly placed at the disposal of the writer by his surviving son, Mr. John Bell, of the Calcutta bar. Written apparently on the spot, and during the red-hot glow of appreciation, they bring the great actress before us in a way which no laboured criticism or description could do. They show how noble an art she practised, and might almost inspire some young and generous mind with the power once more to create heroic men and women on the stage.

Professor G. J. Bell, brother of the great surgeon Sir Charles Bell, was Professor of Scottish Law in the University of Edinburgh, and author of Commentaries on the Law of Scotland, a standard work still in high repute. He was well known by his friends to be a man of fine taste and keen sensibility, as is indeed proved by these