deserves commendation for a new idea. Shakspeare has been presented in many forms, but the notion of giving the Bard without any acting to speak of is a novelty. And it is not quite certain that it is a mistake. After all, a bad actor is an infliction, and it is better to have gentlemen who have not spent centuries in mastering the intricacies of their profession than a noisy personage who tears his passions to atoms. The recent revivals of A Midsummer Night's Dream and the Taming of the Shrew at the Globe Theatre show how pleasing Shakspearian representations may be made, even when their success depends less upon elocution than scenic effect. The first of these plays was simply delightful, with its fairy glades and "built-up" temples. The last, too, is well off for "cloths," pleasingly representing Padua and Verona. The performers (with the exception of Mr. Stephen Phillips, who speaks his lines with admirable effect) are not so noticeable. One of the best-played parts in the piece is filled by an actor whose name does not appear in the programme. He has nothing to do but to carry off Katherina (Mrs. F. R. Benson), in Sc. 5., Act III., on his back. That he looks like an ass while doing this goes without saying, but still he is a valuable addition to the cast. From an announcement in the programme, it appears that Othello, Hamlet, and the Merchant of Venice are shortly to be played. It seems at the first blush a difficult task to pick out of Mr. Benson's present company a gentleman quite suited to fill the title rôles in the two first, and Shylock in the last. But, no doubt, the Lessee and Manager thinks the playing of the characters of the Prince of Denmark and the Moor a matter of minor importance. And, if he does, it may be argued, from the cordial reception that has been accorded to A Midsummer Night's Dream and the Taming of the Shrew, that he has an excellent reason for his opinion.

Believe me, yours truly,
One who is Easily Pleased.

HOW TO MEET IT.

Sir,—Having read all the letters that have appeared in the papers suggesting a treatment for the prevailing epidemic, I have got, perhaps, a little confused; but, on the whole, the following is the course, as far as I can make out, that it would be prudent to pursue on finding oneself threatened with any of the well-known symptoms. Immediately get into a warm bath several degrees hotter than you can possibly bear it, then get out again. Now go to bed, send for your family solicitor, and make your will, meantime trying every half hour half a tumbler or so of any patent medicine the advertisement of which occurs to you. Call in a homœopathic doctor, and give his system a turn for four-and-twenty hours; then send for your own medical man. Take care that they do not meet on the stairs. Take anything and everything he gives you for the next eight-and-forty hours, interspersing his prescriptions with frequent tumblers of hot and steaming ammoniated quinine-and-water, getting down at the same time more beef tea, oysters, champagne, muffins, mince-pies, oranges, nuts, and whiskey than, under ordinary circumstances, you feel would be good for you. Continue the above treatment for a couple of months. This is what I am going to try, if I am down with it. As I said above, it is, if a little complicated, sure to be all right, for I have got every item of it from a careful perusal of those infallible guides and directors in all modern difficulties and doubts,

The Daily Papers.

KICKED!

(By the Foot of Clara Groomley.)

Chapter II.

I am still at Ryde, and it is still raining. On a day like this, a little Ryde goes a great way. No Ryde without rain. Telle est la vie. The young girls at Plumfields sit writing themes indoors instead of taking their exercise in the open air.

If this rain keeps on, I shall go to wild Assam again, or to the Goodwin Sands. James, the headwaiter, has told me thirteen different stories of the haunted room of this hotel. None of them are amusing, or interesting, or have anything to do with this tale. If I were writing a shilling volume, I should put them in by way of padding. As it is, they may go out. I too will go out.

I have seen Mlle. Donnerwetter. She was racing along on the pier, and I was pacing along in the rear. I saw her and caught her up. I hastily pressed all the valuables that I had with me—four postage-stamps and an unserviceable watch-key—into her hand, and entreated her to give me an interview with Miss Smith.

"Me muchee want to oblige English Sahib," she said, in her pulverised English, "but ze Effendina—ze what you call 'ead-mistress, French lady like myself—she no like it. She give me the bottine, if I let great buckra massa talk to Fraulein Smeets. But lookee—I give you straight tip. Miss Smeets is on ze pier now—you write note—slip it in her hand. I wink ze eyebrow. I have a grand envy to oblige the English Signor. Ah! Bismillah! Quelle alouette!"

She is French, very French, but she has a kind heart. I hurriedly wrote a few impassioned words on my left cuff, and folded it into a three-cornered note. I dropped it down Miss Smeet's neck as I found her leaning over the side of the pier, and then ran away. I heard her murmur, "Someone's mistaken me for the post-office."

It is still raining, but I am quite happy. I have seen her again, and I feel that she loves me. It was impossible to mistake the tendresse with which she murmured, "post-office." In my little note I requested her to send a reply to this hotel. I have asked her to tell me plainly what her income is, and to state on what conditions she will forfeit it. Of course, she has no income now, as she is a minor, but I would wait a year or two for a certainty. Shall I write her some verses—lines to a minor, or thoughts on the Southampton quay? Perhaps I had better wait until I obtain the statistics. Ah, here is James, bringing me a note. It must be from my darling—no, it is from Mademoiselle.

Dear Sir,—Miss Smith am going away to Londres. A telegram come for her, and I look over the shoulder. It say, 'Poor Tommy's kicked! Come at once,' Miss Smith make the tears.

Yours,
Lucia Donnerwetter.

I must be off to London and get this matter traced. James entreats me to buy a new hat when I am away. He says it's bringing disgrace on the hotel, and keeping away custom. What! Give up the hat which her dear foot has kicked! Never! But, perhaps, I will have it ironed. The iron has entered into my soul, and perhaps, it would be doing more good on my hat. Yes, I will have it ironed. It does look a little limp. Ironed or starched—what matter, when my darling is gone, and left me with no information as to her income?

(To be concluded in Two more Chapters.)

"Venice Preserved" in The Haymarket.

No—not Otway's tragedy, and not under Mr. Beerbohm Tree's management, but at the Gallery next door to the Theatre, and under the superintendence of