OUR ILLUSTRATED LONDON LETTER.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 52, 27 December 1890, Page 9

OUR ILLUSTRATED LONDON LETTER.

SARAH BERNHARDT. The great theatrical event of the winter season arrived in Paris with the production of MM. Sardou and Moreau’s ‘ Cleopatre,’ at the Porte-Saint-Martin-Theatre. There seems to be a pretty general consensus of expert opinion that Sardou’s latest' effort on behalf of his most favoured tragedienne has not altogether eclipsed Shakespeare’s tragedy on a similar theme. This is unfortunate for Sardou, who holds Shakespeare as very small shakes, and hence stultifies himself by the comparison. The new play of Sardou and Moreau rests entirely on the divine Sarah’s shoulders : the support she receives from Gamier, as Anthony, being weak, and in no sense in proportion to the importance of the character he should sustain. Sarah, as the Serpent of Old Nile, appears with red-gold hair, and bronzes her complexion very little (why at all, considering Cleopatra was a Greek ?) She wears five dresses n all, each ot unique pattern, and apparently laid on by the yard uncut, and pinned promiscuously about the body with priceless brooches of precious stones. Thus swathed, Sarah seems a trifle hampered and overwrought with a sense of what would happen should a brooch give way. Of course everybody waits breathlessly for the real asp in the death scene, and this intelligent little reptile ‘ behaved capitally ’ on the first night, and without the slightest trace of nervousness or stage fright. Mdme. Bernhardt has christened her asp ‘ Isis,’ and after Cleopatra has given up the ghost through its instrumentality, she takes it home with her and gratefully regales it on a light supper of hot milk. HENRY IRVING. Mr Henry Irving has essayed another Scotch character, and this time with conspicuous success. I was one of those who thought little of his Macbeth : he had neither face nor figure for the Scottish king, ami in no character has his mannerisms been so pronounced. Even the gifted Ellen Terry gave an interpretation of Lady Macbeth which made critics fall out. But whatever diverse opinion we may have had regarding the presentation of the Shakes|>earian drama, the prestige of our greatest actor is fully restored in the new play of ‘ Ravenswood. ’ He is a model Edgar in form of person and dignity of demeanour, while the character of the passionate lover, the melancholy, pensive, lonely social outcast, is invested with all the romance and chivalry that are pourtrayed by the magic pen of the ‘Wizard of the North.’ And as Irving, so Miss Terry. No more engaging creature, none so gentle, so refined, so elegant in deportment, so eloquent in voice and gesture, could well be imagined than Lucy Ashton. Even in her madness—the young victim of disappointed love—Miss Terry has that method which is the very essence of the artistic representation of the unmethodical. Never have I seen the great tragedian receive a more generous tribute to his marvellous genius than on the ‘ first night,' when the roof of the Lyceum shook with thunders of applause. The play follows elose upon the lines of Scott’s

‘ Bride of Lammermoor," and a weird glamour envelopes the whole drama, of which the mysteriou metaphysical Edgar is the central figure. The ending of the first act. where the timeous intervention of the fascinating Lucy Ashton restrains Edgar from joining in mortal combat with her father, is a most impressive tableau, and one in which Mr Irving, with his powers of facial expression, cannot and does not fail to score. That scene, too, in which the fond lovers, with youthful ardour, plight their troth and break a ring between them to seal their vow. brings out the great pathos and passion which Mr Irving and Miss Terry are capable of. The catastrophe is particularly saddening, involving the death of the two persons whose fortunes have stirred our souls and chained our attentions. In such a framework, and especially when avenging the cruel deception and moral murder of the object of bis passionate love. Mr Irving exhibits a piece of dramatie jxrrtraiture that leaves its impression on every person who sees it. Like ‘ Macbeth,' there is a good deal of the supernatural in ‘ Ravenswood,’ and facilities, therefore, were afforded for the elaborate stage mechanism in which Mr Irving is an acknowledged adept. The libretto of Mr Her man Merivale is a literary production of a high order, and Dr. Mackenzie s music is all that could be desired. A successful season at the Lyceum, always pretty certain, is now a foregone conclusion.

The strong man craze, born of Samson the Shorn One of the Aquarium, reared by Sandow and Atilla at the Alhambra, and neatly put to bed by the Griffths Brothers in Athol Mayhews's skit at the Empire, is upon us again ! This time it has been fanning the flickering fortunes of the Royal Music Hall in Holborn. where crowds assemble nightly' to witness the prodigious muscular achievements of Sandow and his new partner, Goliath—a huge, unshapely hunk of humanity, discovered by the conqueror of Samson, in a stone quarry at Aix la < hapelle, where he was engaged handling lum|>sof rock of nnheard-of size ami weight. Goliath stands 6 feet 21 inches in what look more like his canoes than his shoes ; is said to measure 65 inches round the chest ; has quite a Tipperary head. 33 inches in circumference, and weighs some 27 stone. His hands, which are as big a*eightounce boxing gloves, and therefore quite legal, have a t wel ve inch span. Altogether, he forms a .somewhat cumbersome mountain of a man, but makes a capital foil to the more shapely Sandow, who appears to be gaining rather than losing strength. < hie of Sandow "s feats—that of lifting Goliath in a kind of scale with the second linger of his light hand—is, indeed, unparalleled. But the assertion that Sandow now puts a dumb-bell weighing 3121bs with onehand above his head, must lie taken cum grano sal is. The greatest weight at present raised in this manner is 201jlbs by Pennell, the American, who holds the record.

THE LATE MAJOR BARTTEI.OT. The sensation in what may lie known as ‘ African < ’ircles,’ is the publication of Major Barttelot's ‘ Diaries and Letters,' edited by his brother. These may be divided into two parts, historical and controversial, the question at issue being with Mr Stanley. The charges brought against the great traveller are sufficiently circumstantial to call for an immediate denial. In this book Stanley is directly and categorically accused of ‘ malignity, ingratitude, desertion, and misrepresentation ’; and for being, furthermore, morally responsible for all the disasters which belief

the rear guard of the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition. <>f course, such a grave indictment has produced the inevitable interviewer, who in the shape of a .Vci<I’orZ- Herald man, sought Mr Stanley, recently, at Richmond Terrace, to hear his answer to the charges brought by the dead Major's brother. Stanley, of course, denies them. ‘ln regaid to what I have wiitten in “Darkest Africa’’ alamt Major Barttelot,’ said the explorer, ‘ I have not one word to retract. What I said then I say now, and what I say is the truth. Yes: but it is only part of the truth. The rest I have withheld out of regard to the family (particularly the venerable father) of the dead man, whose brother is now attacking me. and who may rouse me to declare to the world that which I Znoir, but of which lam sure he has no conception.’ Mr Stanley subsequently left for America. He will probably make his final reply to the charges against him atter he has concluded his lecturing tour in the United States. In the meantime, Where is Mr Trope's book? ANDREW LANG. Few modern writers dip deeper into the well of English undefiled than Mr Andrew Lang. His style is at once pellucid and crystalline, graceful and scholarly. Whether he be writing one of his charming leaders for 77«- Ixiibi News, collecting folk or fairy-lore, or gently controlling Mr Rider Haggard in his eccentricities of parsing, theskilful hand of the practised journalist and bookwright is invariably visible. Mr Lang's latest work, ‘TheLifeof Lord Iddesleigh,'the Conservative statesman so long known to the world as Sir Stafford Northcote, is a delightful model of careful and discriminating biography, full of both pleasant and instructive matter most refreshing to peruse. Mr Lang attacks his subject and maintains his character throughout with a commendable freedom from fulsome adulation or carping dissection. In dealing with the literary side of Lord Iddesleigh's mind, Mr Lang is, of course, at his very best. To the world at large, however, it was as a party leader, and a Chancellor of the Exchequer in a powerful Tory Government, that the deceased nobleman was known ; and from this aspect it was true of him, as his biographer says, that ‘ his career shows how much a man may do who has neither commanding genius, nor is born to great place, nor is animated by the restless eagerness of ambition.