LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 882, 23 April 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WINTER’S TALE. By K. E. Mulley, “ Wonder on till truth makes all things plain. ” Midsummer Night’s Bream, act v. sc. i. ( Continued ,) Day after day went by, and still no letter came; and Phemie gave it up in despair, saying to herself, as comfort, ‘He will come himself on New Year’s eve, and then all will be rightbut with a misgiving in her heart that belied the hopefulness of her words. ‘Phemie,’ said Mr Seaton, on the mornin of the 31st, ‘ I want you to drive into Leston this afternoon, and fetch my new gun and the cartridges that are coming by the 3,50 train. Bullets promised to send them, and I can’t go for them to-day.’ * Oh, yes, papa, I should like to go very much,’ Phemie cried, radiant with smiles. What could be more delightful? Was not the 3.50 the train that Christopher Kennicote must arrive by ? How pleased and surprised he would be to have her meet him ! ‘ And by the way, child, if you see anybody whom you could ask to dinner, you might bring them back. It is horribly dull these long evenings indoors ; there is not even any hunting with this frost, and it has killed half the birds.’

So saying Mr Seaton took himself off to the stables, leaving Phemie in a state of great excitement and delight ; for had she not actually got an invitation for Christopher Kennicate that night ? ‘ Anybody,’ her father had said ; so she should fulfil his directions to the letter. This 3.50 train was the only through express for the day; so he was sure to come by it. And just before it was due at Leston station Phemie drove up in the stanhope, managing the pair of chesnuts she had driven ail the way home with the dexterity of a skilled hand. Rhe gave the reins to old Pentire the coachman, who had sat beside her, in case the horses should chance to require a stronger hand, and jumped down, helped by the station-master. *ls the train likely to be late ? ’ she asked.

‘No, Miss Seaton; I expect her to be signalled in two minutes. This way, if you please. ’ Phemie followed him, and paced up and down the platform for a turn or two, and presently in rushed the express. Her heart beat fast as she watched the passengers get out. One, two, three, four, she counted them. Surely these were not all ! Yet it was the average number at the little station. She watched them collecting their luggage, and saw the train leave again in a passion of disbelieving wrath. Misgiving, doubt, fear—all were merged into one woful certainty. Christopher Kennicote had not come! And sick at heart, her eyes blinded with tears, she could scarcely keep from falling. She made her way almost mechanically back to the car riage, gor- in, and drove home again at a pace that filled Pentire’s soul with indignation, half for himself and half for his horses.

‘ What a lather they’ll be in, and a nice gashly mess the “ stand-up” ’ (f<-r so Pentire had christened the stanhope) ‘ will be in for me to clean up ! But women’s all alike—it’s the pace they want, must tear along, or they don’t think they’re driviu’.’ So the old man grumbled to himself, not daring to remonstrate aloud ; for it was well knowm at Roscorla that Miss Phemie, like her father, had a will of her own, which was best left alone. But Pentire was mistaken. Phemie thought little of horses, and less ( f the pace, that afternoon; and it was only due to the animals knowing their way home that they ever got there -not to her driving; for Phemie took no heed of anything, and they had stood for a full minute in front of the entrance before she saw where she was. Her father came and lifted her down from the high diiving-scat, saying, ‘So you have brought no one back to dinner, Phemie ? ’ ‘No,’ she said bitterly; ‘I saw no one.’ And then she frightened the squire out of his wits by falling back a d ad weight into his arms insensible. *****

The new year comes in very sadly at Roscorla ; for in the early part of it Phemie Seaton is very ill; and when she leaves her room again—where she has been kept prisoner for nearly a month —she is but the ghost of her former self, she looks so pale and thin, and it is with evident difficulty and distaste that she again takes up her old amusements or occupations. The cause of the change which has come over her puzzles Jenifer and the squire and the doctor too, though he talks very wisely of a chill taken that afternoon when she drove home from Leston, which has left bad effect. Phemie lets him say so without contradiction, and obediently takes the tonics which he promises will soon set her right again, though her faith in them is small : for she knows that it is heart-sickness she is suffering from, that one line, one word of a missing letter would cure. But it does not come, and after a while she gives up all hope of ever hearing from or seeing Christopher Kennicote again. Day after day she fights a desperate battle against the love that came so easily, all unawares, and that now stood up defiantly, refusing to be cast out. She is bitterly humiliated to find that, though she acknowledges Christopher Kennicote has jilted her as heartlessly and cruelly as a man could do, still she cannot keep her heart from breaking ; her pride rises in arms even against her physical weakness, and after a while she manages to drag herself about the house and into the village with something like her former energy. She forces herself to laugh and talk to amuse her father and Mr Courtenay, who is a frequent visitor ; for he and Mr Seaton have at last found a mutual interest in the fishing, and spend whole days together down by the river, coming back in the evening laden with dainty little brown trout, the finest of which is presented to Phemie for her dinner. She is always to be seen at the window watching for them. Mr Courtenay’s visits make a pleasant break in the monotony of her days; and she learns to look for his coming, and for the time being her spirits rise a shade nearer to the old level, though only fitfully, and to fall back again. AN UNFINISHED STAGE FIGHT. The following from fcbe Era Almanac. as emanating from Mr Walt r W. HiP, w 1 be rad with interest. It is evident th -t ! this gentleman is a; hqppy"'with the pen as he is before the footlights ;

In the days of Young and Hvd°s, the Qu en’s Theatre, Melbourne, was as flourishing an establishment as any manage 1 ’ could wish for—crowd d hous 1 s, h gh prices, easy b 1 s,” short e' e rsa s a d artis s’ salnies by no meat s ruinous. Those were the halcyon times of lucky diggers ; high boots, red shirts, cabbage-tree hats, and short pipes being the “correct thing” in the dress circle. Then the Chombers Family in their flings and hornpipes were nightly pelted with half-crowns, and valuable nuggets, wrapped in one-pound notes, were often tossed, instead of floral offerings, to favourite performers. “Charley” Yong and “ Johnny ” Hydes (familiar names to the o'd Me bourne playgoer) were the prime favourites, and a lady, now in the first rank on the London stage, was the “ bright particular star ” of the mimic firmament. A prominent member of the company was Mr G. H. Rogers, tban whom a finer actor never trod the colonial stage, and who, if ever he had visited England, must have taken very high rank in the line of parts filled by the late Mr W. Farren All Australians will long remember Rogers. Manly, honest, genial, well-informed, with admirable social qualities, and as an actor of o’d men and character ports equalled by few in any quarter of the globe. The “ Queen s ” saw many roseate days in the early times of the gold diggings, and many artists of celebrity in colonial records have trodden its stage. First “The noblest Roman of them all,” the lamented <>. V. Brooke. Few' men have ever been so endeared to the Melbourne public as poor Brooke, and wTien the news of his awful fate reached Melbourne, it was received as if some great calamity bad befallen the colonies. Poor Hus first appeared in Melbourne at the Queen’s ; so did that great favourite aud charming lady, Fanny Gathcart. Also poor Bob Heir (now r lying in the bleak cemetery at the Bluff, Kew Zealand). Also Richard Youngc, w r ho first taught Australians what stage management should be. Julia Kurland first “warbled her W’ooduotes ” here, and William Hoskins made his first victorious low upon its boards. But alas ! for the “ Queen’s ” ! A certain John Black built the magnificent Theatre Royal, in Bourke street, aud King Coppin erected the Olympic—called, fr om its shape aud the materi-1 of which it was constructed, “The Iron Pot.” and then the days of the “ Queen’s” w r ere numbered ! Mrs Brougham tried to keep it going; Mrs Edwin _ Forert (Mrs Catherine Sinclair) conducted it for a season ; but against G. V. Brooke at the “Pot,” and Lola Montes at the “Royal,” nothing could be done. And after sundry death struggles, the “Queen’s’’ submitted to its fate, and became a carriage factory! “ Sic transit gloria !” The last performance given at the “ Queen’s” terminated in a very laughable manner, and may serve to amuse the indulgent reader. Mrs Forrest’s reign came to a very disastrous termination, aud one of the actors, Mr Joseph Rayner, wished to take a benefit, which w'as accordingly fixed for a Saturday evening. There was the theatre all right, and “ Joe” trusted that the audience would be all right too, but where were the actors to come from ? Most of the late company had de parted into the “ provinces” to try “ gully hunting” in the wilds of Eaglehawk or Kangaroo Flat. Some, however, were left, and the henefleidre managed to raisea few Collingwood amateurs to complete the cast. Of course— A GREAT BILL!

For this night only! 1 Unprecedented Attraction ! ! !

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK! THE CORSICAN BROTHERS ! MAT i EO FALCONE; Or, 'l'he Brigand and his Boy ! Come EaHy 1 The house crowded, the audience appreciative, and the ‘ Argus ’ runners in tne gallery more than usually demonstrative. The third act of ‘ Hamlet ’ was got through very smoothly, hut in * The Corsican Brothers ’ the first real contretemps happened. When Chateau Renaud was stabbed, his black wig fell off, and the lifeless body lay i rone, partly red haired and partly bald-headed. The last piece was a good old drama of the russet boot and basket hilted school, in which were two principal bandits, one virtuous, the other only so so, several genet al utility brigands, a precocious boy of predatory instincts, and a comic corporal (played by W. H., well known on the colonial stage). At the end of the piece, as fire-arms were scarce, and hardly dep ndable, it was arranged that the wicked outlaw, instead of falling, as the author directs, from a volley from the soldiery (represented by an aged super and a young lady in white trousers), should meet the comic corporal; after a terrific combat, should strike him down, and as he rushed to the upper entrance, should be met and shot by the aucient super. But “ The best laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft agley.” The valiant corporal duly met the blackbrowed bandit; a terrific encounter took place, round eights, primes, and the rest of it; down went the corporal, up rushed the bandit, and was met by the veteran with a huge pistol which only snapped when the trigger was pulled. Far be it from a brigand of the Abruzzi to fall beneath a percussion cap. So again he rushed down stage and once more attacked W. H., who was just recovering his perpendicular. Another desperate onset worthy of a Froissart to describe. The audience shouted witli delight, the newsboys in the gallery cried, “Go it, corporal.” When that military officer was once more laid prostrate by the truculent outlaw, again the bandit rushed up stage and was met by tne full private with the pistol. Snap ! once more Either the charge was damp, or the weapon, like the actor, having been on half salary, had not been properly loaded. Up jumped the corporal. “ Bravo !” yelled the gallery boys. -‘Give him another round! At it they went again, and the sparks Hew from the swords as they laid on like a pair of gladiators. It was just twelve o clock. The hencficiare quite despaired of the ciirtain coming down. Happy thought! He rushed upon the stage, and seizing his outlawed friend by the hand exclaimed, ‘’My friend, thank heaven that thou art safe ! tomorrow’s dawn shall see us far from hence. So shout, friends, for the brigand of the Abruzzi.” The corporal, once mote on the ground, shouted, “ Hurrah 1” and the green curtain descended for the last time at the old Queen’s, Melbourne. — Walter W. Bill.