of the word, to play with the materials of life." So says Mr. Froude.

In the face of this statement of fact set forth gravely in its place
in the history of our land, what becomes of such bold assertions as
are sometimes made regarding the place of the drama being but a poor
one, since the efforts of the actor are but mimetic and ephemeral,
that they pass away as a tale that is told? All art is mimetic; and
even life itself, the highest and last gift of God to His people, is
fleeting. Marble crumbles, and the very names of great cities become
buried in the dust of ages. Who then would dare to arrogate to any art
an unchanging place in the scheme of the world's development, or would
condemn it because its efforts fade and pass? Nay, more; has even the
tale that is told no significance in after years? Can such not stir,
when it is worth the telling, the hearts of men, to whom it comes as
an echo from the past? Have not those tales remained most vital and
most widely known which are told and told again and again, face to
face and heart to heart, when the teller and the listener are adding,
down the ages, strength to the current of a mighty thought or a mighty
deed and its record?

Surely the record that lives in the minds of men is still a record,
though it be not graven on brass or wrought in marble. And it were
a poor conception of the value of any art, if, in considering it, we
were to keep our eyes fixed on some dark spot, some imperfection, and
shut our eyes to its aim, its power, its beauty. It were a poor age
indeed where such a state of things is possible; as poor as that of
which Mrs. Browning's unhappy poet spoke in the bitterness of his
soul:

"The age culls simples,