much pleasant to look upon. �Orlando� was very tolerable good.
Touchstone excellent, and Jacques was damnably marred to
the point of stagey perfection by Wallack. He gesticulated,
his voice rose and fell, he made points of nothing, he uttered
little phrases in style befitting a threat of murder, � he strutted,
he soliloquized like a stage struck snob � out upon him!
Pre-Raphealitism is needed on the stage, I trow. What mis-
erable, execrable conventionalities they do! Why, Jacques must
een strut in front of the foot lights to give his speech on
the Seven Ages of Life � all the rest gazing like asses on a
common, or undertakers at a funeral. I�d have him sit
at the end of the table head on hand, and give it in thought
ful contemplative mood, uncaring for all going on around him.
The banished Duke might bend forwards to list to his
words, or Amiens; but the rest should be filling wine
cups, quartering deer, what you will. What the devil
would Jacques care about them? instead of haranging them like
a pot-house demagogue. And there should be huge black
bearded fellows lying around, and deer hounds; foresters with
sleeves tucked up; antlers, hunting horns, boughs and rushes
all about. Besides, to see the execrable absurdity of
transferring Jacques� soliloquy on the stricken deer from the mouth
of the First Lord to his own; � he, who in the next scene