artist," and so on. It is not
only that this is bad in itself; but that it is unworthy of the company
in which it is found; that such verses should not have appeared with the
name of a good versifier like Lord Lytton. We must take exception, also,
in conclusion, to the excess of alliteration. Alliteration is so liable
to be abused that we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it is a
trick that seems to grow upon the author with years. It is a pity to see
fine verses, such as some in "Demos," absolutely spoiled by the
recurrence of one wearisome consonant.

II

SALVINI'S MACBETH

Salvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of
_Macbeth_. It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he
chose to play the Scottish usurper for the first time before Scotsmen;
and the audience were not insensible of the privilege. Few things,
indeed, can move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking
shape for the first time. If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is
surely human. And the thought that you are before all the world, and
have the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at least keeps
you in a more unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if it does
not enhance the delight with which you follow the performance and see
the actor "bend up each corporal agent" to realise a masterpiece of a
few hours' duration. With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts
to the feelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night after
night, does the same thing differently but always well, it can never be
safe to pass judgment after a single hearing. And this is more
particularly true of last week's _Macbeth_; for the whole third act was
marred by a grievously humorous misadventure. Several minutes too soon
the ghost of Banquo joined the party, and after having sat helpless a
while at a table, was ignominiously withdrawn. Twice was this ghostly
Jack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage before his time; twice removed
again; and yet he showed so little hurry when he was really wanted,
that, after an awkward pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to
empty air. The arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk
that made him nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and
worthily topped the whole. It may be imagined how lamely matters went
throughout these cross purposes.

In spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini's Macbeth had an
emphatic suc