actress could have done; in the death scene she expressed the supreme unconsciousness of innocence with the same beauty and the same intensity.  Her palpitating voice, in which there is something like the throbbing of a wounded bird, seemed to speak the simple and beautiful words as if they had never been said before.  And that beauty and strangeness in her, which make her a work of art in herself, seemed to find the one perfect opportunity for their expression.  The only actress on our stage whom we go to see as we would go to see a work of art, she acts Pinero and the rest as if under a disguise.  Here, dressed in wonderful clothes of no period, speaking delicate, almost ghostly words, she is herself, her rarer self.  And Mr. Martin Harvey, who can be so simple, so passionate, so full of the warmth of charm, seemed until almost the end of the play to have lost the simple fervour which he had once shown in the part of Pelleas; he posed, spoke without sincerity, was conscious of little but his attitudes.  But in the great love scene by the fountain in the park he had recovered sincerity, he forgot himself, remembering Pelleas:  and that great love scene was acted with a sense of the poetry and a sense of the human reality of the thing, as no one on the London stage but Mr. Harvey and Mrs. Campbell could have acted it.  No one else, except Mr. Arliss as the old servant, was good; the acting was not sufficiently monotonous, with that fine monotony which is part of the secret of Maeterlinck.  These busy actors occupied themselves in making points, instead of submitting passively to the passing through them of profound emotions, and the betrayal of these emotions in a few, reticent, and almost unwilling words.

II.  “EVERYMAN”

The Elizabethan Stage Society’s performance of “Everyman” deserves a place of its own among the stage performances of our time.  “Everyman” took one into a kind of very human church, a church in the midst of the market-place, like those churches in Italy, in which people seem so much at home.  The verse is quaint, homely, not so archaic when it is spoken as one might suppose in reading it; the metre is regular in heat, but very irregular in the number of syllables, and the people who spoke it so admirably under Mr. Poel’s careful training had not been trained to scan it as well as they articulated it.  “Everyman” is a kind of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” conceived with a daring and reverent imagination, so that God himself comes quite naturally upon the stage, and speaks out of a clothed and painted image.  Death, lean and bare-boned, rattles his drum and trips fantastically across the stage of the earth, leading his dance; Everyman is seen on his way to the grave, taking leave of Riches, Fellowship, Kindred, and Goods (each personified with his attributes), escorted a little way by Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and the Five Wits, and then abandoned by them, and then going