CCCXIII.

Mr. Macready explains the process by which he checked a tendency to redundance of action in his early days. He also speaks of the frequent use of looking-glasses to reflect his postures. Madlle. Rachel's salon d'étude in Paris was fitted with mirrors so ingeniously arranged, both on the walls and the ceiling, that the effect of the merest movement of the body and the smallest fold in the drapery of her garments could be observed by her.

W. C. Macready to Mrs. Pollock.

Sherborne: June 20, 1856. My Dear Mrs. Pollock,-In a letter written to me on Thursday morning,' you make inquiry of me whether it is true that, in my youth, my action was redundant, and that I took extraordinary pains to chasten it? It is rather hard to give evidence on occurrences of so remote a date. Indeed, I must make myself quite certain whether I ever knew such a period as that of youth before I can answer your question. Of that, however, I will not at present treat, but inform you that there was a time when my action was redundant-when I was taught to attempt to imitate in gesture the action I might be relating, or to figure out some idea of the images of my speech. How was I made sensible of this offence against good taste? I very soon had misgivings suggested by my own observation of actual life. These became confirmed by remarking how sparingly, and therefore how effectively, Mrs. Siddons had recourse to gesticulation. In the beginning of one of the chapters of 'Peregrine Pickle' is the description of an actor (who must have been Quin) in Zanga, elaborately accompanying by gesture the narration of Alonzo's emotions on discovering and reading a letter; the absurdity is so apparent that I could not be blind to it, and applied the criticism to myself in various situations. which might have tempted me to something like the same extravagance. A line in the opening of one of the Cantos of Dante-I do not immediately remember it-made a deep impression on me in suggesting to me the dignity of repose; and so a theory became gradually formed in my mind, which was practically demonstrated to me to be a correct one, when I saw Talma act, whose every movement was a change of subject for the sculptor's or the painter's

LL

study. Well, as my opinions were thus undergoing a transition, my practice moved in the same direction, and I adopted all the modes I could devise to acquire the power of exciting myself into the wildest emotions of passion, coercing my limbs to perfect stillness. I would lie down on the floor, or stand straight against a wall, or get my arms within a bandage, and, so pinioned or confined, repeat the most violent passages of Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, or whatever would require most energy and emotion; I would speak the most passionate bursts of rage under the supposed constraint of whispering them in the ear of him or her to whom they were addressed, thus keeping both voice and gesture in subjection to the real impulse of the feeling. Such was my process.' Perhaps when I have the pleasure of seeing you I may make myself more intelligible, if you desire further acquaintance with my youthful discipline. I was obliged also to have frequent recourse to the looking-glass, and had two or three large ones in my room to reflect to myself each view of the posture I might have fallen into, besides being under the necessity of acting the passion close to a glass to restrain the tendency to exaggerate its expression-which was the most difficult of all—to repress the ready frown, and keep the features, perhaps I should say the muscles of the face, undisturbed, whilst intense passion would speak from the eye alone. The easier an actor makes his art appear, the greater must have been the pains it cost him. I do not think it difficult to act like Signora Ristori; it seems to me merely a melodramatic abandonment or lashing up to a certain point of excitement. It is not so good as Rachel, nor to be compared with such acting as that of Siddons and O'Neill. But you will have cried, 'Hold, enough!' long since. Will you give my love to your husband, and ask him for me the name of his optical instrument maker. I want to send some articles to be refitted, and, from Willie's enthusiasm about his telescope, I hope I may derive some benefit from his acquaintance. I have a great deal to tell you, if I had time to gossip, but I am sure here is more than sufficient for one post. All loves from home. Mine to your little boys.

Believe me

Yours most sincerely,

W. C. MACREADY.

CCCXIV.

There is scarcely a page of the two volumes of the 'Life and
Correspondence of Dr. Arnold,' by Dean Stanley, which does
not throw a beam of light on the character of one of the most
interesting, zealous, and useful men of this century. Few are
the instances, even in modern biographical literature, in which
so forcible a representation of character is given by means of
epistolary correspondence. From the abundance of his earnest-
ness-for this is the most striking of his characteristics-we
who had not the advantage of falling within the sphere of his
influence, may snatch from his letters most vivid glimpses of
his work as a church reformer, a political thinker, a scholarly
author, a friend of the working classes, and greatest of all, as a
schoolmaster. It is not merely within the precincts of Rugby
School that his name is a household word.

The Rev. Thomas Arnold, D.D., to the Rev. F. C. Blackstone.
Rugby: September 28, 1828.

It is, indeed, a long time since I wrote to you, and there has been much of intense interest in the period which has elapsed since I did write. But it has been quite an engrossing occupation; and Thucydides and everything else has gone to sleep while I have been attending to it. Now it is becoming more familiar to me, but still the actual employment of time is very great, and the matters for thought which it affords are almost endless. Still I get my daily exercise and bathing very happily, so that I have been, and am, perfectly well, and equal in strength and spirits to the work. For myself, I like it hitherto beyond my expectation, but, of course, a month is a very short time to judge from. I am trying to establish something of a friendly intercourse with the Sixth Form, by asking them, in succession, in parties of four, to dinner with us, and I have them each separately up into my room to look over their exercises. I mean to bring in something like 'gatherings' before it is long, for they understand that I have not done with my alterations, nor probably ever shall have; and I am going to have an examination for every form in the school, at the end of the short half-year, in all the business of the half-year, Divinity, Greek and Latin, Arithmetic, History, Geography, and Chronology, with first and second classes, and prize books for those who do well.

I find that my power is perfectly absolute, so that I have no excuse if I do not try to make the school something like my beau ideal -it is sure to fall far enough short in reality. There has been no flogging yet, (and I hope that there will be none,) and surprisingly few irregularities. I chastise, at first, by very gentle impositions, which are raised for a repetition of offences-flogging will be only my ratio ultima-and talking I shall try to the utmost. I believe that boys may be governed a great deal by gentle methods and kindness, and appealing to their better feelings, if you show that you are not afraid of them. I have seen great boys, six feet high, shed tears when I have sent for them up into my room and spoken to them quietly, in private, for not knowing their lesson, and I have found that this treatment produced its effects afterwards, in making them do better. But, of course, deeds must second words when needful, or words will soon be laughed at.

CCCXV.

The Rev. Thomas Arnold, D.D., to an old pupil at Oxford.

February 25, 1833.

It always grieves me to hear that a man does not like Oxford. I was so happy there myself, and above all, so happy in my friends, that its associations to my mind are purely delightful. But, of course, in this respect, everything depends upon the society you fall into. If this be uncongenial, the place can have no other attractions than those of a town full of good libraries.

The more we are destitute of opportunities for indulging our feelings, as is the case when we live in uncongenial society, the more we are apt to crisp and harden our outward manner to save our real feelings from exposure. Thus I believe that some of the most delicate-minded men get to appear actually coarse from their unsuccessful efforts to mask their real nature. And I have known men disagreeably forward from their shyness. But I doubt whether a man does not suffer from a habit of self-constraint, and whether his feelings do not become really, as well as apparently, chilled. It is an immense blessing to be perfectly callous to ridicule; or, which comes to the same thing, to be conscious thoroughly that what we have in us of noble and delicate is not ridiculous to any

but fools, and that, if fools will laugh, wise men will do well to let them.

I shall really be very glad to hear from you at any time, and I will write to the best of my power on any subject on which you want to know my opinion. As for anything more, I believe that the one great lesson for us all is, that we should daily pray for an increase of faith.' There is enough of iniquity abounding to make our love in danger of waxing cold; it is well said, therefore, 'Let not your heart be troubled ye believe in God, believe also in Me.' By which I understand that it is not so much general notions of Providence which are our best support, but a sense of the personal interest, if I may so speak, taken in our welfare by Him who died for us and rose again. May His Spirit strengthen us to do His will, and to bear it, in power, in love, and in wisdom. God bless you.

CCCXVI.

This letter was written while Coleridge was staying at Fox
How with the Doctor's family.

The Rev. Thomas Arnold, D.D., to Mr. Justice Coleridge.
Rugby: September 23, 1836.

If you have the same soft air that is now breathing round us, and the same bright sun playing on the trees, which are full charged with the freshness of last night's rain, you must, I think, be in a condition to judge well of the beauty of Fox How. It is a real delight to think of you as at last arrived there, and to feel that the place which we so love is enjoyed by such dear friends, who can enjoy it fully. I congratulate you on your deliverance from Lancaster Castle, and by what you said in your last letter, you are satisfied, I imagine, with the propriety of the verdict. Now you can not only see the mountains afar off, but feel them in eyes, lungs, and mind; and a mighty influence I think it is. I often used to think of the solemn comparison in the Psalm, 'the hills stand about Jerusalem; even so standeth the Lord round about His people.' The girdling in of the mountains round the valley of our home is as apt an image as any earthly thing can be of the encircling of the everlasting arms, keeping off evil, and showering all good.

But my great delight in thinking of you at Fox How is mixed