My friend may retain his calm
as he hears of our distant doings in Kiplingized India, but it would
never do for me. Even to-day, after a fortnight in the country, I am
beginning to get restless. Really, I think I ought to get back
to-morrow.
The State of the Theatre
We are told that the theatre is in a bad way, that the English Drama
is dead, but I suspect that every generation in its turn has been told
the same thing. I have been reading some old numbers of the Theatrical
Magazine of a hundred years ago. These were the palmy days of the
stage, when blank verse flourished, and every serious play had to
begin like this:
_Scene. A place without._ Rinaldo _discovered dying. Enter_ Marco_._
_Mar._ What ho, Rinaldo! Lo, the horned moon
Dims the cold radiance of the westering stars,
Pale sentinels of the approaching dawn. How now, Rinaldo?
_Rin._ Marco, I am dying, Struck down by Tomasino's treacherous hand.
_Mar._ What, Tomasino?
_Rin._ Tomasino.
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