Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, _ingenuus puer_, and likewise _bonæ indolis_—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready. CHAPTER VII. 1879. ‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.’ This great and attractive play was now ready: all was anticipation and eager interest The night of its production—November 1, 1879—was a festive one. The house was most brilliant: and indeed this may be accounted the first _regular_, official Lyceum _première_. I recall that among the audience were Tom Taylor and Henry Byron, names that now seem ghost-like, so rapidly do literary shadows depart. Like some rich Eastern dream, steeped in colours and crowded with exquisite figures of enchantment, the gorgeous vision of the pageant seems now to rise in the cold, sober daylight. As a view of Venetian life, manners, and scenery, it has never been matched. The figures seemed to have a grace that belonged not to the beings that pace, and declaim upon, the boards. Add the background, the rich exquisite dresses, the truly noble scenery—a revel of colour, yet mellowed—the elegant theatre itself crammed with an audience that even the Lyceum had not witnessed, and it may be conceived what a night it was. The scenery alone would take an essay to itself, and it is hard to say which of the three artists engaged most excelled. The noble colonnade of the ducal palace was grand and imposing; so was the lovely interior of Portia’s house at Belmont, with its splendid amber hangings and pearl-gray tones, its archings and spacious perspective. But the Court scene, with its ceiling painted in the Verrio style, its portraits of Doges, the crimson walls with gilt carvings, and the admirable arrangements of the throne, etc., surely for taste, contrivance, and effect has never been matched. The whole effect was produced by the painting, not by built-up structures. The dresses too—groupings, servants, and retainers—what sumptuousness! The pictures of Moroni and Titian had been studied for the dove-coloured cloaks and jerkins, the violet merchant’s gown of Antonio, the short hats—like those of our day—and the frills. The general tone was that of one of Paolo Veronese’s pictures—as gorgeous and dazzling as the _mélange_ of dappled colour in the great Louvre picture.