Stowe notes, letters and verses . ed. I can think of no one (but then I know few come-dians) to be a Falstaff, save Owen; and the something inhis style, dry, hard, and mercenary (so to speak it),might lend itself to express the underlying cynicism ofthe character. They all cry out for talented interpreta-tion—Bardolph, the old dog; Pistol (Owen would be wellhere too) ; Glendower; the King—I should love to talk theplay over with you. One scene in particular requires tobe played between good actors—Hotspurs quarrel withGlendower. Hotspur, of course, would be in safe hands,but you must have a goo
Stowe notes, letters and verses . ed. I can think of no one (but then I know few come-dians) to be a Falstaff, save Owen; and the something inhis style, dry, hard, and mercenary (so to speak it),might lend itself to express the underlying cynicism ofthe character. They all cry out for talented interpreta-tion—Bardolph, the old dog; Pistol (Owen would be wellhere too) ; Glendower; the King—I should love to talk theplay over with you. One scene in particular requires tobe played between good actors—Hotspurs quarrel withGlendower. Hotspur, of course, would be in safe hands,but you must have a good Glendower. He is a great fig-ure. Do you remember how the Pater, in telling one ofhis stories, would rouse himself to give point and em-phasis to the climax, his eyes (so extraordinary, with apower of intense expression I have never seen equalled)burning truly like coals of fire ? You know the is thus, I believe, that Glendower should speak hispart, with passion and conviction—of the moment, at allevents. ^5*^. LETTERS 289 TO HIS MOTHER Stowe, February 6, 1895. You have escaped the coldest spell of the winter inbeing now in a comparatively temperate region. It isone of those days when, from an indoor point of view, itwould seem impossible to sustain life outside for anylength of time. There is no speck of color in sky or land;a shadowless and blinding day, with overhead a densecloud of the same ghastly white as the snow. Now, ateleven oclock, I have just been around to the piazza tolook at the thermometer, which stands at 18° night it fell to —22°. It was a dreadful night; thewindow-panes, except in the double windows, were soclouded by frost as to be opaque. It was unusually dim,and with the moon somewhere behind the clouds. Aheavy wind blew from the west, rattling the windowsand making the dry snow hiss against the glass, as itdoes in a south storm. Yesterday I drove to the village to mail a letter toyou. Polly was cramped up (you know how h
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