45 



MRS. SIDDONS AS LADY MACBETH* 



WHEN any great work of art perishes from among us, we not 

 only grieve, but we rebel against the decree of fate. The wars, 

 the traffic, the mechanical arts of old, nay even the men and 

 women, wither into an oblivion which is not painful but kindly. 

 We sigh and smile and acquiesce better so, for here was 

 nothing fitted to endure for ever. They had their time, as we 

 have ours, and who would wish that the strife, the bustle, the 

 men of to-day should last for ever ? But the destruction of any 

 beautiful thing, whether it be the work of art or nature, fills us, on 

 the contrary, with sickening regret. The temple, statue, picture 

 gone imply a loss of joy to uncounted generations. We suffer real 

 pain when we think of lost tragedies by Sophocles, and our whole 

 classical system of education is a protest that though kingdoms, 

 peoples, tongues may die, their works of beauty shall endure. 



If this be our feeling as to the more durable works of art, 

 what shall we say of those triumphs which by their very nature 

 last no longer than the action which creates them the triumphs 

 of the orator, the singer, or the actor ? There is an anodyne in 

 the words * must be so,' ' inevitable,' and there is even some 

 absurdity in longing for the impossible. This anodyne and our 

 sense of humour temper the unhappiness we feel when, after 

 hearing some great performance, we leave the theatre and think, 

 e Well, this great thing has been, and all that is now left of it is 

 the feeble print upon my brain, the little thrill which memory will 

 send along my nerves, mine and my neighbours' ; as we live longer 

 the print and thrill must grow feebler, and when we pass away 

 the impress of the great artist will vanish from the world.' The 

 regret that a great art should in its nature be transitory explains 

 the lively interest which many feel in reading anecdotes or de- 



1 From the Nineteenth Century, 1878. 



