Miss Terry herself had always fancied the character of Iolanthe, and it was now proposed to give the play as an after-piece to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ a substantial meal for one night. Our heroine made a tender, natural, and highly emotional character of it. A new version or adaptation from the Danish had been made, for obvious reasons, by the trusty Wills: the piece was set off by one really lovely scene, which represented the heart of some deep grove, that seemed almost inaccessible to us, weird and jungle-like. A golden, gorgeous light played on the trees capriciously; there was a rich tangle of huge tropical flowers; while behind, the tall, bare trunks of trees were ranged close together like sentinels. Golden doors opened with a musical chime, or clang; strange, weird music, as of æolian harps, floated up now and again. With this background, knightly figures of the Arthurian pattern and ethereal maidens were seen to float before us. Miss Terry’s conception of the maid was not Miss Faucit’s, which was that of a placid, rather cold and elegant being. She cast over the character a rapture, as though she were all love and impulse, with an inexpressible tenderness and devotional trust, as when she exclaimed, “I _go_ to find the light!” This sort of rapture also tinged Mr. Irving’s character, and the audience were lifted into a region where emotion reigned supreme. CHAPTER VIII. 1880. ‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP.’ With his usual tact the manager had determined on a change of entertainment which should offer a marked contrast to the classical success just obtained, and was now meditating a revival of the once popular romantic drama, ‘The Corsican Brothers,’ with all its spectral effects—certainly one of the best of many admirably-constructed and effective French pieces. To such a group belong the absorbing ‘Two Orphans,’ ‘Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life,’ ‘Victorine,’ and others. ‘The Lady of Lyons’ is the only one of our _répertoire_ that can be put beside these ingenious efforts. Some thirty years ago, when it was produced at the Princess’s, the horny-voiced Charles Kean performing the Brothers, it took hold of the public with a sort of fascination—the strange music of Stöpel, and the mysterious, gliding progress of the murdered brother across the stage, enthralling everyone. There was a story at the time that the acts, sent over from Paris in separate parcels for translation, had become transposed, the second act being placed first, and this order was retained in the representation with some benefit to the play. This may be a legend; but the fact is that either act could come first without making any serious difference.