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this moment for an utterly new and great leading woman. She ought to be young and practically unknown. She wants to surprise the town and make the critics put their first impressions down without knowing where she sprung from. I can imagine just such a triumph some night. The girl will fly like a bird to the pinnacle of brainwhirling magnificence. The audience will roar in wonder, and, after recovering itself, will say:

"I never thought such greatness could be."

That will be my chance to say:
"I did."

But another season has gone by without this happening.

C. M. S. McLellan.

THE MINSTREL.

WHEN autumn leaves were brown and gold
Thro' sunlit solitudes of sky,
In distant beauty fold on fold,
Like gleams of far eternity.

A thwart the air a song divine

In sweetness o'er the silent way, Flung far and near preludes sublime In glories of an ancient lay.

He sang of love in dear refrain,

The rapture and the perfect bliss, No life is ever lived in vain,

Resplendent in that happiness.

Of friendship in the deeps of night,
A beacon in the harbor bar,
Thro' desolated shades of light,

In unreached grandeur, star on star.
And thus the bard in splendor sang
To listening hearts and cheeks aglow.
Thro' distant town and hamlet rang
The wonder of his music's flow.

When sympathy swept o'er the lyre
Her golden touch, the hidden tears
Re-kindled there a sacred fire

Thro' reveries of saddened years.

Mabel Hayden.

ART CHAT.

THE ACADEMY EXHIBITION.

I.

IT is conceded on all sides that the Sixty-third Annual Exhibition of the National Academy of Design, which opened on Monday, is by far the most excellent display which that Institution has given us for many years.

There are absolutely no pictures out of the 590 hung for whose presence upon the walls one is forced to blush, as has generally been the case in years gone by. There are no absurdities, no daubs.

The hanging committee have executed their task most satisfactorily, and divided up the striking pictures so that one room is as interesting as the other.

One pleasant feature of the exhibition is that so many of the pictures are complete compositions, good in every particular. We do not mean merely paintings which are satisfactory in the ensemble, but canvases which, in their entire surface, are covered with perfect workmanship.

Such is Winslow Homer's "Eight Bells" (370), two sailors taking an observation during a momentary sun-burst on a foggy day. It is not, perhaps, as powerful a picture, as dramatic a theme, as his last year's "Vudertow," but is free from any of the defects of composition which that work certainly had.

A second example is Thomas Horenden's negro genre, "Their Pride" (64); the daughter of the family is trying on a new bonnet, while her little brother and the old parents look admiringly on. The subject may not interest one (in our humble opinion it was positively not worth painting), but you cannot help but linger long before its masterly execution, the truth of the values, the force of the chiaroscuro, the balancing of the colors; all its parts are so ably worked out that there is no fault to be found with it. It is a vulgar fashion of giving praise to a picture because the figures fairly stand out of the frame. It is one of the charms of this work that all the figures are much behind the frame, in a room the other side of it; we look through it at them. There is atmosphere in the room, too.

A third instance is found in F. A. Bridgman's Eastern genre, “ Mending the Jacket (Souvenir of Tlemçen)" (312). In the action of the mother's figure as she takes a stitch in the garment, and the pretty pose of the child looking lazily on, we can recognize nature in every line. It has no curved angles, no angular curves, no crude color, no achromatism.

THE works of Messrs. Blum, Mowbray, Brush, C. G. Turner, and Gaul, must follow, but they are not of equal power because works completely satisfactory.

Robert Blum's "Venetian Bead-Stringers" (355) is one of the best pictures in oil the artist has ever exhibited, at least at the Academy. But there is so much in Mr. Blum, he is so right in his methods, so untrammeled in his choice of subject, so clever his composing of his pictures, that we have a right to expect a great deal from him, and the "Bead-Stringers" does not give us a great deal; it only half satisfies. Were it to be engraved in Harper's Weekly it would make a capital full-page illustration; but in color, as a painting-well, the color, without being crude, raw, or glaring, is loud.

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"A great deal of accent, but very little noise," said Wagner to his orchestra, while leading one night. This is sometimes a distinction well worth the painter's consideration. We fear that Mr. Blum, seeking to accent this brilliant color he has found in the costumes of the Southern people has become noisy.

Perhaps Mr. Blum has not given the years to the study of painting that Mr. Bridgeman or Mr. Horenden have, and it is more dangerous for him to paint blue blue and red red than for them. In art you cannot always call a spade a spade without offending. And it needs culture not to offend. Gilbert Gaul also gives a better picture than since many years in Charging an Earthwork" (360), but Mr. Gaul's color is always too blue and metallic, and he seems to slight modelling. His drawing is always good, his figure full of action. The color in in this picture is a great improvement upon former times.

We cannot say of Messrs. Mowbray, Brush and Turner that they have not been better represented.

H. Siddons Mowbray indeed sends a work very inferior to anything every publicly exhibited by him. He calls his composition "The Evening Breeze" (433), and

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it represents a string of maiden floating across a meadow rose-tinted with the luminous rays of the setting sun. These maidens are, moreover, performing upon musical instruments.

The defect in the composition is the introduction of solid objects to his dreamy scene. Cut out the hard-wood instruments and the picture immediately increases tenfold in beauty.

Many a poem is spoiled by the introduction of some commonplace realism amid its ideal verses. Byron could do this, but few other men. Mr. Mowbray's picture could never be actually realized, therefore we claim nothing in it should approach the real. The musical instruments do, and so does, to some degree, the drapery in which his figures are clad.

Otherwise there is great beauty in the color-scheme, and great delicacy in the drawing and modelling.

C. Y. Turner's contributions this year commend themselves for the marked earnestness they bespeak for the author. The technic in them is straightforward; the story to the subject self-evident. Let us take only "John Alden's Letter" (328); this has the faults and virtues of his other contributions.

The composition is, as a whole, dignified, quiet and interesting, but the background and auxiliaries are painted with fully as much force as the figures and faces. Perhaps it is partially due to the hanging of the picture, but the expression of the face in no wise impresses us.

* **

WE do not for ourselves like Geo. de F. Brush's "The Sculptor and the King" (222) as well as his single-figured "Sculptor," which was in last year's Society of American Artists' Exhibition.

The canvas seems a trifle large for the subject, or rather the subject is not treated quite largely enough for the canvas.

We should feel that the figures are in a large court or chamber by the painting, not by the drawing. But the painting does not, in this case, show it. We merely note it by the composition size of the decorations on the wall.

But Mr. Brush deserves the greatest praise for chosing distinctively American subjects, and his "Aztecs" we think more interesting than his "North American Indians." In design this picture is indeed excellent, and in color fair.

We hope it will receive the Clarke prize. Ernest Knauft.

MARMONTEL.

ON a beautiful spring morning some years ago I tripped briskly along the Rue Blanche until I came to a pretty hotel, half hidden by an immense veranda full of shrubs and plants.

As I walked up the gravelled path that led to this embowered house, I trembled just the least little bit, for I was to play, for the first time, before Marmontel, the celebrated master of the piano-forte, at the Conservatoire.

I summoned up my courage and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a man in livery. I was taken through a fine old hall and ushered into a saloon that had an antique air.

Seating myself on a tapestried chair, I looked around.

The floor, polished like marble, was covered with rare skins. The sunlight streamed in through windows of stained glass and fell on a picture of St. Cecilia. On the walls hung masterpieces by Delacroix, Meissonier, Bongereau, Vernet. On pedestals stood

rare statuettes. Articles of bric-a-brac lay scattered here, there and everywhere.

Did Chopin, or Beethoven, or Henri Herz ever have a room like this, I mused.

Advancing to the large Erard piano, which stood in one corner, I saw photographs of Berlioz, Faléoy, Planté, Rossini, Rubenstein, Auber, Ambroise Thomas, with their autographs.

There I caught a glimpse of the portraiture of Gounod and “a son, cher ami, Marmontel," reads the dedication beneath it.

I waited some moments. I was charmed by the artistic surroundings.

Ah, the portiere is lifted and Marmontel

stands before me!

Never shall I forget the kind smile which illuminated the noble, intelligent face, crowned with snowy hair.

The smile of the master was at once sympathetic and reassuring.

There was a keen look in the bright, blue eyes.

Marmontel held out his hands to me.

In ten minutes we were the best of friends.

After I had played for him, Marmontel sat down at the piano, and the tones of the "Funeral March," by Chopin, filled the

room.

Notes slow as a knell, grave as the rolling of crape-covered drums, announce that the hero has just expired. Then a cry of anger rises in the air and seems to ask justice of | Heaven for the death of the great man.

Resignation, in long mourning garments, comes slowly forward. Suddenly a triumphal song breaks forth. Glory cuts the air with her broad wings and drops a wreath on the catafalque. But here comes Despair and speaks of the vanity of human effort, of the ephemeral nature of fame, of the nothingness of everything! Revolt rises again and utters imprecations mixed with sobs. And then, finale, a dull, thud-like sound covers all. The clods of earth have fallen on the coffin. It is over.

In

When the last notes had died away I rose impetuously and grasped Marmontel's hand. "Yes, chére enfant," said he, “'tis not often I play for my pupils, and know not why to-day I was in the mood to do so. my eyes this "march funèbre" of Chopin has never been equalled by any one, not even Beethoven, that genius of sorrow. But let us talk of other things. So you would like to know something of the Conservatoire? Come, sit near me on this divan, and I'll give you a few scraps of information. "Larette, a captain of the National Guard of Paris, is regarded as being the real founder of that great school. Cherubini was one of the earliest directors. Ambroise Thomas is the present director."

Thoroughly interested I interrupted Marmontel and asked him whether the Conservatoire of Paris had not a museum collection of musical rarities.

or

"Yes chère enfant," said the master, "the collection of works on musical and dramatic art is considered to be one of the finest in the world. The museum contains more than four hundred instruments of music, both ancient and modern. The piano of Hérold, that of Clapisson, and that of Auber, are to be cited. Then there is the bag-pipe of Van Loo, the clavecin of Ruckers, the travelling piano of Beethoven, the violin of Lulli, a guitar that belonged first to Paganini and then to Berlioz. The signatures of both these masters is in this guitar. But I am boring you with my radotage. No? Well, I am glad to have interested you, ma chère petite."

Here we are interrupted by the entrance of two poodles. 'Come, Romeo and Juliet," said Marmontel, "let me introduce you to Mademoiselle." These are my two pets. I have had them for many years, my child. They are the first living creatures that greet me in the morning, for since forty years that I teach in the Conservatoire, I have kept the bad habit of beginning my work at five every day, and, notwithstanding my white hairs, I feel stronger than the Pont Neuf, which has just been restored.

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THE winds are singing sad lullabies,
Outside of my window there ;
And I am singing of two blue eyes,
And the ripple of golden hair.

Could I but sing as the winds to-night,
My song would float far and free,
From this room here, with a wild delight,
Till she listened, and came to me.

But no man living can ever sing

Like the winds at my window-pane.
Chant they, as I, for a precious thing
That will never be theirs again?

Sing they, as they stray from pole to pole,
Of Time, and the winds that ran
Before Life knew that Death was its goal-
When the world knew nothing of man?

Do they plead outside, as I have plead
At the door of an empty heart?
Or, would they come where a heart has bled,
When from one it was torn apart?

Well, the window's up! Let them come along
From a world of sorrow and sin:
We will sing together to-night a song
Of to-morrow-come in! come in!

II.

To-morrow we'll be happy, you and I ;
To-morrow not a cloud will dim our sky;

And our ships afloat afar

Will all cross the harbor bar,

With their royal pennants floating from on high!

To-morrow you will sing the sweetest song;
To-morrow right will reign instead of wrong;
And souls for souls intended

Will meet within the splendid

Scented bowers that to love alone belong!

To-morrow love will lead us down the way;
To-morrow will be fairer than to-day;

There's a rainbow in the skies
That will gladden weary eyes,

When to-morrow comes, and sorrow holds no sway.

To-morrow everyone will cease to weep;
To-morrow peace into our hearts will creep;
We'll forgive and we'll forget-

For memory never yet

Followed man into his long and dreamless sleep. John Ernest McCann.

THE MIDDLE-MAN OF THE THE

ATRE.

THERE are two things most needed in the literary and theatrical world of to-day.

An international copyright law, so that the product of a man's brains shall be as safe as his pocket-book, no matter where he may live.

And the rehabilitation of the middle-man in the drama—namely, the manager.

The publisher and the manager have always been the stumbling-block between the author and the dramatist, and the public.

Even more so than the middle-man in the marts of trade and commerce.

They have never been leaders of public taste, but the blindest of purveyors.

The largest publishers of this country have made the bulk of their fortunes by the most flagrant literary piracy. Now that the smaller literary pirates are cutting under them in price, the necessity of self-preservation is driving them to do justice to the author in helping to secure an international copyright.

The Buccaneer managers have made a large share of their profits by selling stolen sweets from foreign ports.

The great reason of the growth and development of the middle-man, whether in trade or art, has been the lack of business ability on the part of the producer, be he farmer, patentee, author or dramatist.

The inventive or literary ability is seldom combined with the speculative and managerial.

But that is no reason why the blood and brains of the producer should be wholly sacrificed to the voracious maw of the middle-man in striving to reach the consumer.

The inventor or author is infinitely more in sympathy with the needs and tastes of the public than the speculative observer.

And if he could get at the heart of the public fresh with the warmth of his subject, he could prove it ninety-nine times in a hundred.

Especially in regard to the stage.

In the early days of the drama, when it was regarded in the purely esthetic and art sense, the manager was an actor, and often a dramatist and painter.

In these commercial days of the drama, the reason why so large a proportion of managers have become little more than janitors of theatres, is because they have made the business as purely speculative as the stock or grain-broker, and have had no training in the artistic nature of their calling.

Hence the reason of the growth of traveling combinations and of star actors, with their own special play. It was a determined effort on their part to give the public what they wanted and what they knew they could best provide.

Very few of the present-day managers possess the literary or artistic acumen to tell what the public want. They blindly feel their way and when, by chance, they stumble on the thing of public demand, they strive to buy it low and sell it high, like unto the broker on the street.

Or worse, still, like a flock of sheep, if a manager produces a successful novelty, they try to purchase or hire constructed something in the same vein, until the public is wearied and nauseated with a continued feasting on the same fare. Managers never seem to have learned that variety is most essentially the spice of theatrical life.

And yet, what credit they take to themselves if a play succeeds that they may have had a hand in producing, and probably the merit is wholly due to the author or com

pany.

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'Pinafore," was a success in spite of the managers, and a success here before it was abroad. A clever American saw a performance in London and recognized its merits He brought over a copy and traveled from theatre to theatre in fruitless efforts to get it produced. Finally he secured a foothold for it, and we all know how it spread like wild-fire when the public got an opportunity to see it.

The secret of its success was because a consistent, cohesive and cleanly witty story accompanied the music, the first we had in the English language.

The true manager of the theatre, like the first-class caterer in a café, should know instinctively the wants of his guests in advance; not simply to gild a pill so that the public can swallow it in lieu of something better, with the adjuncts of fine settings and furnishings, and the attractions of handsome and shapely women, but give them literary food in the spirit of the times. The public taste in literary and dramatic | matters has always run in cycles. There have been special demands for tragedy and special demands for comedy. There have │

been runs of melodrama and runs of farce, particular calls for opera and particular calls for burlesque, and a well-trained and rightly-educated manager should be always in advance of such public demand.

It is by no means an easy post to fill: the manager of a large and successful theatre; therefore, the more credit due to those who have risen to be leaders of public taste. I am not one of those who believes that the public is so exceedingly fickle or ignorant of what it desires. I believe they know pretty well what they want, and know how to appreciate a good thing when they get it.

Let the managers of theatres combine with the publishers in striving to secure an international copyright; and let them, also, prepare themselves for the field they are to enter by educative training, with a realization that some artistic instincts are necessary, as well as the investment of capital and speculative ability.

William F. Sage.

HERR KARL KLINDWORTH. THIS artist, who is, without question, one of Germany's representative musicians, left for Berlin a few days since, after a sojourn of some three months in this country. While here he gave in New York, Boston and other leading cities from twenty-five to thirty piano-forte recitals of a most interesting character, his three principal programmes being respectively devoted to the works of Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt. As Herr Klindworth has been so pre-eminently successful as an editor of the leading edition of Chopin, his rendition of that master's works were listened to with a special interest, although there was a diversity of opinion as to the result. Having been an intimate friend of Wagner for many years, and the arranger of the piano-forte score of the Ring des Nibelungen," he has had the best of opportunities to become acquainted with the composers conceptions of his works, which he has put to good account in his station as director of the Philharmonic concerts in Berlin and head of the Wagner V'erein.

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It is to be regretted that he did not appear this season as a conductor. Let us hope to see him in that capacity next year. Edgar S. Kelley.

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