been, so far as we are concerned, to create a yearning for a new kind
of stage hero. What we would like for a change would be a man who

wouldn't cackle and brag quite so much, but who was capable of taking
care of himself for a day without getting into trouble.

THE VILLAIN.
He wears a clean collar and smokes a cigarette; that is how we know he

is a villain. In real life it is often difficult to tell a villain
from an honest man, and this gives rise to mistakes; but on the stage,

as we have said villains wear clean collars and smoke cigarettes, and
thus all fear of blunder is avoided.

It is well that the rule does not hold off the stage, or good men
might be misjudged. We ourselves, for instance, wear a clean

collar--sometimes.
It might be very awkward for our family, especially on Sundays.

He has no power of repartee, has the stage villain. All the good
people in the play say rude and insulting things to him, and smack at

him, and score off him all through the act, but he can never answer
them back--can never think of anything clever to say in return.

"Ha! ha! wait till Monday week," is the most brilliantretort that he
can make, and he has to get into a corner by himself to think of even

that.
The stage villain's career is always very easy and prosperous up to

within a minute of the end of each act. Then he gets suddenly let in,
generally by the comic man. It always happens so. Yet the villain is

always intensely surprised each time. He never seems to learn
anything from experience.

A few years ago the villain used to be blessed with a hopeful and
philosophical temperament, which enabled him to bear up under these

constantly recurring disappointments and reverses. It was "no
matter," he would say. Crushed for the moment though he might be, his

buoyant heart never lost courage. He had a simple, child-like faith
in Providence. "A time will come," he would remark, and this idea

consoled him.
Of late, however, this trustinghopefulness of his, as expressed in

the beautiful lines we have quoted, appears to have forsaken him. We
are sorry for this. We always regarded it as one of the finest traits

in his character.
The stage villain's love for the heroine is sublime in its

steadfastness. She is a woman of lugubrious and tearful disposition,
added to which she is usually incumbered with a couple of priggish and

highly objectionable children, and what possible attraction there is
about her we ourselves can never understand; but the stage

villain--well, there, he is fairly mashed on her.
Nothing can alter his affection. She hates him and insults him to an

extent that is really unladylike. Every time he tries to explain his
devotion to her, the hero comes in and knocks him down in the middle

of it, or the comic man catches him during one or the other of his
harassing love-scenes with her, and goes off and tells the "villagers"

or the "guests," and they come round and nag him (we should think that
the villain must grow to positivelydislike the comic man before the

piece is over).
Notwithstanding all this he still hankers after her and swears she

shall be his. He is not a bad-looking fellow, and from what we know
of the market, we should say there are plenty of other girls who would

jump at him; yet for the sake of settling down with this dismal young
female as his wife, he is prepared to go through a laborious and

exhaustive course of crime and to be bullied and insulted by every one
he meets. His love sustains him under it all. He robs and forges,

and cheats, and lies, and murders, and arsons. If there were any
other crimes he could commit to win her affection, he would, for her

sweet sake, commit them cheerfully. But he doesn't know any
others--at all events, he is not well up in any others--and she still

does not care for him, and what is he to do?
It is very unfortunate for both of them. It is evident to the merest

spectator that the lady's life would be much happier if the villain
did not love her quite so much; and as for him, his career might be

calmer and less criminal but for his deep devotion to her.
You see, it is having met her in early life that is the cause of all

the trouble. He first saw her when she was a child, and he loved her,
"ay, even then." Ah, and he would have worked--slaved for her, and

have made her rich and happy. He might perhaps even have been a good
man.

She tries to soothe him. She says she loathed him with an unspeakable
horror from the first moment that her eyes met his revolting form.

She says she saw a hideous toad once in a nasty pond, and she says
that rather would she take that noisome reptile and clasp its slimy

bosom to her own than tolerate one instant's touch from his (the
villain's) arms.

This sweet prattle of hers, however, only charms him all the more. He
says he will win her yet.

Nor does the villain seem much happier in his less serious love
episodes. After he has indulged in a little badinage of the above

character with his real lady-love, the heroine, he will occasionally
try a little light flirtation passage with her maid or lady friend.

The maid or friend does not waste time in simile or in metaphor. She
calls him a black-hearted scoundrel and clumps him over the head.

Of recent years it has been attempted to cheer the stage villain's
loveless life by making the village clergyman's daughter gone on him.

But it is generally about ten years ago when even she loved him, and
her love has turned to hate by the time the play opens; so that on the

whole his lot can hardly be said to have been much improved in this
direction.

Not but what it must be confessed that her change of feeling is, under
the circumstances, only natural. He took her away from her happy,

peaceful home when she was very young and brought her up to this
wicked overgrown London. He did not marry her. There is no earthly

reason why he should not have married her. She must have been a fine
girl at that time (and she is a good-looking woman as it is, with dash

and go about her), and any other man would have settled down cozily
with her and have led a simple, blameless life.

But the stage villain is built cussed.
He ill-uses this female most shockingly--not for any cause or motive

whatever; indeed, his own practical interests should prompt him to
treat her well and keep friends with her--but from the natural

cussedness to which we have just alluded. When he speaks to her he
seizes her by the wrist and breathes what he's got to say into her

ear, and it tickles and revolts her.
The only thing in which he is good to her is in the matter of dress.

He does not stint her in dress.
The stage villain is superior to the villain of real life. The

villain of real life is actuated by mere sordid and selfish motives.
The stage villain does villainy, not for any personal advantage to

himself, but merely from the love of the thing as an art. Villainy is
to him its own reward; he revels in it.

"Better far be poor and villainous," he says to himself, "than possess
all the wealth of the Indies with a clear conscience. I will be a

villain," he cries. "I will, at great expense and inconvenience to
myself, murder the good old man, get the hero accused of the crime,

and make love to his wife while he is in prison. It will be a risky
and laborious business for me from beginning to end, and can bring me

no practical advantagewhatever. The girl will call me insulting
names when I pay her a visit, and will push me violently in the chest

when I get near her; her golden-haired infant will say I am a bad man
and may even refuse to kiss me. The comic man will cover me with

humorous opprobrium, and the villagers will get a day off and hang
about the village pub and hoot me. Everybody will see through my