THEATRICAL SURVEY.

IN that very entertaining book, Colley Cibber's "Apology for his Life," the author devotes a passage to lamenting the great increase which had taken place in the number of theatres, while there had been no corresponding increase in the number of dramatic authors. At that period there were in London five theatres, and there were writing for the stage the following gentlemen: Dryden, Congreve, Wycherley, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Gay, Shadwell, Etherege, Cibber himself, and a host of others whose names only have come down to us. But of the five theatres mentioned one was devoted to opera, and the others were not open for performance on every day in the year; so that if we say that the writers of the period were working for three houses, we will-in any comparison of that age with thisapproach more nearly to the truth. It is true that in those days people spoke with surprise of an unprecedented run of thirteen nights, and quoted one hundred and thirty pounds as a “fabulous" sum when that price was paid by the manager to a Drury Lane author-this, however, only serves to heighten the contrast we would point out. In our own day affairs are reversed. We have almost as many theatres in London now as they had authors then; while, on the other hand, it is but a slight exaggeration to say that our authors number about as many as did their theatres. If, then, Colley Cibber found reason to deplore the rise of new theatres on the ground that too great a strain would thereby be put upon the author and upon the public-if he was of opinion that there was not a sufficient amount of invention, imagination, ingenuity, and wit among thirty mortals to supply dramatic entertainment to three audiences-though among these mortals were Dryden, and Congreve, and Farquhar-how much more reason have we to deplore in an age like this the miserable spectacle presented by our theatres. If to the names of Lytton and Marston we add those of Gilbert and Robertson, we have mentioned all who have a proper conception of the dignity of their art. Literature is a thing which we do not think of expecting on the stage. The merest adventurers in letters take to it when everything else, from novel writing to comic journalism, has failed with them. It presents to the craft an opening similar to that which is afforded by the medical profession to a certain class of men at college-a safe refuge-to which the entrance is easy, and over which thenames and reputations of great men shed a protecting halo. Stage writing has become a trade. What the old dramatists call "the best sort of men" rarely

think of competing for dramatic honours; and when they doif their work happens to possess any sterling literary merit-any ring of true poetry-they will have every reason to regret having entered upon the competition. That dramatic talent and dramatic taste seem to have declined in the same proportion as our means of placing plays upon the stage effectively have increased, is a fact as patent as it is deplorable. Wits and poets have fled on the approach of carpenters and machinists. The inventor of a new sort of trap-door is a person much more respected than the writer of an epigrammatic dialogue. The painter of the scenes usually receives as much pay as the author of the piece-and usually deserves more. If Colley Cibber were alive now, he would not be so ready to express a low opinion of his works, or to write an apology for his life. Measuring himself by the standard of 1872, he would find himself to be as far beyond the age of Boucicault as he was below the age of Shakspeare.

The month presents little of interest, and nothing of value whereon to report. The French plays at the St. James's Theatre continue to attract good houses. The Parisian company at the Opera Comique have been obliged-we trust owing to want of public support to close its doors. If we can tolerate bad plays -at least, we know what good opera is, and are not fond of bad singing. The class of works presented at the Opera Comique was rather better than the manner of singing those works; and while it is unpleasant to see industrious and painstaking artists making a costly failure, we are not sorry that this company has betaken itself to regions where its efforts will be more fully appreciated.

Two new writers of comedy have put in an appearance. Mr. O'Neill (whose name we remember to have seen as the author of a burlesque at the Charing Cross Theatre) has supplied the Royalty with a comedy entitled "Bohemia and Belgravia." The title suggests the intention and scope of the work. It also suggests the calibre of the author. The play is a thin imitation of the Robertsonian manner. It is well put on the stage however; and the actors make up to some extent for the deficiencies of the author. Mr. Freund's comedy at the Queen's Theatre we have not seen. The title of the piece is "The Undergraduate." Mr. Freund is the author of the romance entitled "Lost," which ran last year through the pages of the Dark Blue. We do not know whether this fact influences our readers to augur well of his chances as a dramatist.

At the Gaiety Theatre, Mr. Boucicault has produced his "Arrah na Pogue." Those who have seen Mr. Boucicault in one Irish part, will go to see him in all. The play, which is an old favourite with the public, is in our opinion superior to the

"Colleen Bawn." And although the drowning scene in the latter produces a very profound impression on the gallery and the more excitable portions of the pit, it is by no means so great a triumph of science and mechanical skill as the tower scene in "Arrah na Pogue." There is an amount of daring originality in the contrivance, which makes one regret that the author is not permitted to take out a patent for his invention. "The Wearing of the Green" is a song which the authorities in Dublin have prohibited time out of mind. It contains a number of lively aspersions on Saxon character, declares the undying hostility of the Irish, and appeals in a general but forcible manner to the rebellious spirit of the Celt. Mr. Boucicault sings it with great feeling, and is rapturously applauded every night by an audience of Englishmen. We confess that we were pleased to observe the fact. The applause of the audience implied no indorsement of the doctrine, but simply a tribute to the actor. The time is not so far distant when the enunciation of such sentiments on the stage of a London theatre would have caused a scene of very considerable confusion. It is pleasant to see art lifted out of the arid region of party politics.

The number of reproductions on the boards-revivals chiefly of pieces connected with the success of a particular part-is somewhat astonishing just at present. But as good old things are as a rule preferable to bad new ones, we do not feel inclined to complain. In addition to Mr. Boucicault's works at the Gaiety, we may mention Miss Bateman's "Leah" at the Lyceum, Mr. Clarke at the Strand in two of his favourite parts (by the way, when is that gentleman going to give us a repetition of his inimitable Major Wellington de Boots?), and Mr. Fechter's "Hamlet" at the Princess's. At the Vaudeville, Mr. Boucicault's first work as a dramatist, "London Assurance" (produced at Covent Garden when the author was little more than a boy), is found attractive by the public and profitable by the managers.

Opera-bouffé is having a good time of it. Offenbach and Hervé are the heroes of the hour. Three theatres give us compositions of the former, and the latter in person illustrates his works at the Theatre Royal in Holborn. If we can't have wit and as that commodity is the "only drug in all the nation" we don't suppose we can let us have our nonsense, downright nonsense. Let it be sparkling. Let it appeal to the eye and ear without troubling the understanding. Give us plenty of beautiful dresses plenty of forms "expressed" rather than "concealed," as Tennyson has it, by draping-plenty of melody that can be recollected, and hummed upon occasion, till it grows stale. We have come to this. Our next step will be to confess it openly. Amen!

THE GARDEN AND SPRING.

FROM THE OORDOO OF THE "BAGH O BAHAR" AND THE PERSIAN OF THE "FOUR DERVISHES."

TRANSLATED BY THE AUTHOR OF THE "TWO OFFICERS," "WIDOW DALLAS," &c.

VII.

IN the morning they brought me for breakfast, almonds, pistachio nuts, raisins, dates, and sherbet. Thus I fared for three days and nights, and on the fourth, I wished to take my departure. My host, on my mentioning this, said he hoped I found nothing wrong about the reception I met with, that I wished so soon to go. I said:

"That such a consideration never entered my mind, but my sojourn has been long enough for a guest and for a faqueer. I should be departing from my character if I did not travel, but such kindness has been shown me that I know not how to acknowledge it."

Then he said: "You must do as you wish, but stay a little until I mention to the princess about your wish. But before I go, I must tell you that all that surrounds you here is your own property."

I said: "The Lahol," (the expression of surprise) "why if I did as you say, I would be one of those Jews whose soul is bent on gain, not a faqueer; but what a contrast there is between the

two."

He said: "If the princess hear this, she will be angry with me; however, the property shall be locked up in a storehouse and you shall have the key of it, and have all at your disposal."

I tried to oppose this, but he would not hear of it, so I was obliged to consent. Then a faithful woman's servant who had his turban and ears ornamented with jewels, and waistcloth of embroidered cloth, holding a studded gold mace in his hand, with a train of table servants after him in great state, approached me, and with much ceremony and many compliments urged me to enter a more stately house than the one I was in, saying that it would be considered a misfortune to all, and the princess would be much displeased, if I were to leave the country and say I had not been well treated. I was confused with the great attention I received, but I was obliged to follow this second host, and for three days and nights I was feasted most luxuriously and pre

sented with every article of furniture which the second house contained, and after the servant had shown me all that was inside it, he insisted that I should consider myself proprietor of all, and further, if I thought of anything I was in want of only to name it. I then said to him:

"I am a faqueer, not a merchant intent upon gain, though you offer it me without my seeking it.”

Then he said: "There is no mind without covetousness,

Neither those jogees who long nails do wear, nor yet those known by their long-matted hair,

Or those of aspect grim and always sad, or those unclothed who roam the forest mad;

Those who wood-ashes wear from head to foot, or those whose lips are kept for ever mute.

Heroes and braves, snake-charmers have I seen, and those who creep fourfooted on the green;

Those wandering souls under a demon's spell, or those who care not how they fare or dwell;

Those whose self-torture know no sense of pain, those who profess to make the future plain;

But never those whose minds ne'er thought of gain.”

I said: "You speak truly, but I have really no wish for anything. But if you will kindly be the bearer of a note to the princess I shall esteem it a favour, and by its reaching its happy destination it would be to me as though I were given boundless wealth."

He said: "My every thought and act are at your service, I shall be happy in being honoured with your orders."

I then wrote:

Some few

"First I write in the name of the Merciful God. days ago I arrived at this town happy in being under your government, and having become acquainted with the fame of your justice and benevolence, I am desirous of having the honour of paying you my respects in person. I have come on a journey from a far distant country, and everywhere I have passed I have heard of the greatness and goodness of your character. I am not desirous of obtaining any boon. The hope of seeing you is my only wish, and so far from avarice of worldly goods I am myself a prince of my own land and want nothing. If my humble request be granted I shall feel the exalted honour, but if not, I shall wander away and bury my grief in solitude like Mujnoon or Furhad."

I gave this then to the woman's servant, and he took it to the princess, and in a short time returned and took me with him to