the poetry and music of Italy than the languid manner of his predecessor, Festing. A dramatic composer named Ciampi came almost immediately after Giardini's arrival. His works were indifferent, and full of commonplace passages. During the season nothing of any importance was produced, nor were there any singers of distinction, with the exception of Guadagni and Signora Frasi-and the former was still young, and to a great extent unfinished, while the latter was not held in much estimation. At the beginning of the next season, November, 1749, there was a schism at the theatre, and the composer, with the principal singers, quarrelled with Dr. Croza, quitted his establishment in a huff, and erected their standard at the Little Theatre in the Haymarket, where they performed a new comic opera, set by Ciampi, called 'Il Negligente,' nine times. Dr. Croza, with his remaining staff, brought out a burletta at the end of January-Madama Ciana,' composed by Latilla in 1744 for Venice, where it had achieved a brilliant success; but here it was so frigidly received that it did not survive the second night. Almost all the comic operas of that period, when transplanted from Italy to the colder clime of England, failed. Dr. Burney ascribes the reason to our natural aversion to being told what we should admire;' but it is more probably to be found in the simple cause that the light, local fun of one country is not to be understood or appreciated by the natives of another, as is proved by the almost utter impossibility of conveying a just idea of the jokes and good sayings of a foreign nation; for when translated or explained they are either given in a different form or lose their zest.

Several other pieces were pro

duced; but, although Guadagni and Frasi sang in them, they failed one after another.

Dr. Croza, finding that the dark cloud which had obscured the operatic atmosphere for four years would not disperse, determined to rid himself of his responsibilities in a very summary manner. April 7, 1750, he took a personal benefit, and then ran away, leaving the performers and innumerable tradespeople and others largely in debt. He disappeared altogether; and an advertisement was inserted in the 'Daily Advertiser,' May 15, signed by Henry Gibbs, a tea merchant in Covent Garden, offering a reward of thirty pounds to any one who would secure his person. This event put an end to operas of all kinds for some time.

Among fashionable musical entertainments then in vogue was the Ridotto, first introduced in 1722. It consisted of a selection of songssung chiefly by Senesino, Baldassari, Salvai, and Mrs. Anastasia Robinson. On the conclusion of the concert, the performers on the stage joined the company in the pit by means of the bridge that connected the two, which was the signal for the commencement of a ball: this terminated the amusements of the evening. Ranelagh Gardens at Chelsea were built and opened for musical performances in 1742. They were the original speculation of Mr. Lacy, joint patentee with Garrick in Drury Lane Theatre. They were prettily planned, and extended down to the Thames; a superb orchestra, from which concerts of vocal and instrumental music were given, was erected in the centre of a capacious rotunda, with boxes for refreshment in the interior, in which part of the company sat, while the rest promenaded in full dress before them.

E. C. C.

W1

HEN these pages first meet the public eye, the festivities with which it is intended to celebrate the completion of three hundred years from the birth of Shakespeare will be at their height. Thousands of visitors will-if the inhabitants of Stratford be not grievously disappointed-have poured into that quiet town, intent on demonstrating their reverence for the memory of our national poet by all manner of loud talking, by earnest eating and drinking, by play-acting, music, and dancing,-in short, by availing themselves of all those means of making merry and enjoying themselves which are being carefully provided, after the fashion in which from time immemorial the English people have worshipped the objects of their adoration, burning grateful incense always in the proportion of one to the idol and two to themselves.

But of all those who by road or rail, afoot or mounted, will thus go pilgrimaging to the poet's land, it is not probable that any one will reach Stratford by the mode of transit which first conveyed me there; for Stratford at that time had no railway, or at least if it had one the people of Stratford refused to admit the fact, or to call it anything but a tramway. And by this tram from the village of Moreton-in-Marsh, some fifteen miles away, the present writer first made his way to the Shakespearian shrine. His recollections of that ride are a curious combination of the impressions made by travelling by coach and travelling by rail. The journey was performed outside an ordinary railway carriage which had been adapted to the necessities of horse-traction. was fitted with box for driver, and seats beside him for passengers. Attached to the carriage in front was a platform, on which the sagacious horse (the only locomotive used on the Stratford and Moreton Railway) mounted when it had drawn our carriage to the top of an incline, thus escaping being tripped up as we

It

descended at a rattling good speed. The Inspectors of the Board of Trade not having discovered this tramway, the occurrence or non-occurrence of accidents was left chiefly to the goodness of Providence. When we came to the foot of the incline the guard applied his break as tightly as he could, we all, to the best of our individual capacities, held on to our seats, and if we had taken firm hold we thus managed to avoid being pitched off head-foremost. When the carriage came to a stand, the horse dismounted and drew us along as before. There was a tunnel too, on approaching which the driver was kind enough to suggest that such of the outside passengers as thought it likely they would have any further use for their brains should duck their heads as low as possible, and carry their hats in their hands. And thus, following chiefly the course of the river Stour, we wound very pleasantly through shady lanes where the high hedgerows, forming a grateful screen from the hot sun, could be reached by the hand on either side. Or we ran along the public highway, not separated from it by any fence, stopping now and then to take up or set down a wayfarer or to refresh our thirsty selves with beer. At what pace we went, or whether that pace would be most approximately calculated in miles to the hour, or hours to the mile, we hardly know. It was all so very pleasant, and seemed to last so long,—we are of opinion that, except on the break-neck inclines, no great despatch was either sought after or obtained, and it would generally have been quite safe to get down and walk a little. There was always pleasant matter for speculation, too, as to what county we were in at that particular moment. For, starting in Gloucestershire, we found ourselves presently in Worcestershire, forthwith in Warwickshire, then for another breathing space in Worcestershire, anon again in Gloucestershire, back

into Worcestershire, thence once more into Gloucestershire, until at last the graceful spire of Stratford rising before us, we trundled across the beautiful Avon, and ended our journey in Warwickshire, -the shires in these parts being intermixed very singularly, and we having in our short journey made no less than seven changes of this kind. Since then we have visited Stratford many scores of times, having, in fact, come to be almost a townsman of that place, but never again have we journeyed, or shall we journey there so pleasantly. The tramway, it is true, still exists, and is worthy the attention of all archæologists; but passengers to Stratford no longer pass over its ancient, perilous rails. It exists only as a superseded idea. Its modest glories have paled before those of the modern and quite uninteresting railways which have pierced Stratford from the north and from the south.

So that our visitor does reach Stratford, however, it matters but little in what way. We take it for granted that he, coming amongst us as a stranger at this special time, has in reality but one idea connected with the place he is visiting. With him 'Stratford-upon-Avon' is not so much a topographical name as a personal one. To him Stratford and Shakespeare are convertible terms, as they are to nineteen-twentieths of the people who read books. All that we know of Shakespeare the man is so dim and shadowy that after we have put together all the items of knowledge which the research of centuries has been able to amass, we seem to have got but one great central fact by which to hold firmly,that it was here, namely, here in this very town, that Shakespeare lived, and wrote, and died. And it is certain that all who go to Stratford with this one fixed idea will be likely to depart with it more firmly rooted than ever. They will, it is true, have realized to themselves that Stratford is demonstrably something more than a name;-that it is an actual place still existent on the face of the earth, with latitude and longitude of its own;-a real English town made up of streets and houses ex

tremely like those of other English towns;-nay, that it is blessed even with a mayor and corporation, with a local board of health, a vestry, a tax-gatherer, a bellman, a policeman, a pair of stocks,-with all, in short, that marks an advanced stage of civilized society and stamps the town a substantial prosaic fact, with no more of myth about it than there is about Hackney or Brentford. But over and above all this we venture to predict there will be the old feeling stronger than ever that Stratford is not the name of a place but the alias of a man. All that the visitor sees around him,—all that he hears, all that he reads, — all that is done will have relation more or less directly to this man. He will observe how the people of this little town have exerted themselves to erect an elegant pavilion to seat five thousand people, -have built it surely with credit to the town and to the local architects, -have abandoned all other pursuits for the sake of celebrating with the greater honour, according to their lights and to the degrees of wisdom with which they are blessed, this great national festival. Behind this fact, and serving as an effective background to bring all into bolder relief, he will remember that Stratford, viewed in relation to this festivity, is the centre, not of England only, not even of Europe only, but we may say without magniloquence, of the whole world. That in all the busiest cities of England there are gatherings more or less enthusiastic in celebration of this tercentenary day;-that in Germany, in France, in America, in far-off India;-whereever the English language is read or spoken, companies of men are assembled, proud to call themselves countrymen of Shakespeare;-proud, if not his countrymen, of their power to read his words,-and that in all these places, and amongst all these men, there is a disposition to turn and look in one direction, and that, as the Moslem turn and bow towards Mecca, these are saying from time to time how they wish they could look in upon the doings at Stratford.

And if the stranger be of a sanguine, enthusiastic disposition he

may persuade himself that here at last he has come upon an intellectual Utopia,here he has found a prophet who has honour amongst his own people, and a people who rightly appreciate and glory in the distinction that attaches to their home. Let him attemper these beautiful ideas, however, before he leaves. They are too pleasing to be enjoyed without some alloy. We people of Stratford-upon-Avon are not, as a rule, more effusive or sentimental than you people of 'Stratford-atteBowe.' We pass the birthplace itself without so much as looking up at it. When we meet over our glass and our pipe our talk is of heifers and teggs, of the price of beans and oats, of the prospect of a railway being made through the neighbouring parishes, of anything, in short, rather than of Shakespeare. From the Forest of Arden, from Wilmcote, from Snitterfield, from Welford (where there is to this day an actual may-pole still to be seen), from 'drunken Bidford,' from 'haunted Hilbro',' from ' dancing Marston,' we jog to market at Stratford, never thinking that these are classic names. Charlcote, with its fine old house, with its river flowing tranquilly as it flowed three hundred years ago, with its park (scene, as is so persistently and agreeably believed, of the apotheosis of poaching) -with all its associations, is no ground of romance to us. It is merely the seat of Squire Lucy, who drove past just now, and whose mare we thought was going a little stiff on the off leg,-who is not at all ashamed to bear the name and to be of the family of him who has with one consent been identified as the justice who is best known by a name evidently not given him on account of his wisdom. When the tourist joins us at our market dinner we know him at once. And when he attempts to turn the conversation into a Shakespearian channel his failure is often signal. Known to Americans as Washington Irving's hotel,' he will say, reading the headline of our host's hotel bill. And then he asks us how it comes to be so known. We tell him 'Because Washington Irving once stayed here

for a week,-you will see his room on the other side the passage,-you will see a fire-poker on which is engraved "Geoffrey Crayon's sceptre," -you will see old William the waiter, who will tell you all about it.' And then he withdraws to the other side of the passage, and the conversation reverts to the subject of crops or cattle. Nay, here are even those amongst us who speak irreverently of the coming celebrations. Well, Mr. B-,' we said but yesterday, ' and what do you think of all these preparations; taken all your tickets?' And Mr. B's reply was one which we fear will move England to indignation-Tom-foolery,' he said, 'a lot of tom-foolery.' But of course Mr. B- is in a minority, though hardly, we believe, in a minority of one.

Nor, indeed, are all the strangers who look in upon us, strangers who come thinking of Shakespeare only. Frequently there are cheap trips to Stratford. Such a one, on Easter Monday just now passed, brought us from Birmingham and Staffordshire about a thousand people. Of these but little over a hundred visited the house in which Shakespeare was born, and only about half a hundred went to look at his tomb. It should be explained, however, that there were unusual counter-attractions. It happened that on this particular day the basins of the canal were empty and a number of workmen were engaged clearing them of mud. To watch so interesting an operation from two to three hundred of the visitors stood on the wharves for hours. They rewarded with vociferous applause the lucky captor of any eel or other fish which had not succeeded in burying itself. They were not deterred even by the pelting rain from supporting with their presence these industrious labours and researches. It is quite possible, therefore, that if the basins had not happened to require mudding, or if there had been fewer little fishes for the boys to hunt, more of the visitors might have found time for Shakespeare.

During the tercentenary festivals it is not likely that similar distractions will arise. Visitors will be free to surrender themselves to the more

legitimate attractions of the town and its neighbourhood. In the intervals of banqueting, theatricals, and concerts, they will pay due oblations at the local shrines, and make patient pilgrimages from scene to scene. Lest they should not be provided with a suitable guide-book, we make quotations from the 'Visitors' Guide to Stratford-uponAvon,' as it appears week by week in our local newspaper, The Stratford-upon-Avon Chronicle;'-for we are to this day a literary people, and support two weekly papers here. The principal points of attraction are described as follows:

Shakespearian Relics at Mrs. James's,

corner of High Street.

Visitors are invited by the proprietor to inspect the curious and invaluable relics of the immortal Shakespeare, removed from his birthplace in 1820, where they had been shown for a century previously, including a plaster representation in relievo of the Battle between David and Goliah, together with the First Visitors' Book, commencing in 1812, to the present period, including autographs of George IV., William IV., Duke of Wellington, Lord Byron, Louis Philippe, Sir Walter Scott, Hogg, Kean, Washington Irving, and other eminent individuals.'

[It is not on the face of it quite clear in what way a 'plaster representation of the Battle between David and Goliah,' or even an autograph of the above-named 'first gentleman,' are 'curious and invaluable relics of the immortal Shakespeare,' nor how many of these autographs could have been 'shown for a century previously' to 1820. But no doubt this will be all explained at the corner of High Street.]

'Shakespeare's Hall, corner of Chapel Street.

'Here may be seen an admirable full-length painting, by Wilson, of Shakespeare in the attitude of inspiration; the one by Gainsborough, of Garrick reclining gracefully upon a pedestal, idolizing the poet's bust. Both these paintings were presented by Garrick and his wife o the corporation.'

[This is especially worthy the attention of youthful poets, as it will show them what is precisely the proper attitude of inspiration,' and the position which it is right to assume when idolizing' a bust.]

'Jones's Phusiglyptic Museum, Bull Lane.

'A cursory visit may be made to this person, who is a connoisseur, and a self-taught carver of grotesque figures of the creation, made from nature's curious roots and branches, and contains also, portraits of many eminent men.'

[One cannot but feel the most profound respect for any gentleman who keeps a phusiglyptic museum, 'who is a connoisseur, and contains also, portraits of many eminent men.' We are astonished that the editor should speak of him as 'this person.' We commend Mr. Jones to the immediate attention of the committee of the National Portrait Gallery.]

"The Falcon Tavern, opposite the
Guild Chapel.

'Mentioned by Dr. Drake, in his "Noontide Leisures," as having been kept, in Shakespeare's time, by one Julius Shaw; also, in Ireland's "Avon," Brewer's "Warwickshire," and other works. In the smokeroom, where there is no doubt the immortal bard has oft been heard to say "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" is the wainscoting from New Place.'

[It is not pleasant to learn that Shakespeare was in the habit of spouting his own works at a publichouse; but no doubt the editor speaks with authority. We must be content to take our great men as we find them.]

The Birthplace of Shakespeare, Henley Street.