"Was killed-and is alivc! I am George Warrington, madam, and I ask his kinsfolk what have you done with my brother ?"

When this scene is recalled, and the reader remembers, also, that Madame Bernstein's heart goes back forty years, and she fancies that George Warrington is the Henry Esmond who worshipped her as Beatrix, it will be easily admitted that Thackeray, when he chose or happened to be dramatic, touched the confines of sublimity.

If a dramatist were daring or profane enough to interpolate a few characters, and add a love story to the episode, the adventures of George Warrington while a prisoner in the American wilderness, and his escape therefrom with the French commandant, the Indian squaw and the trapper as dramatis persona, would, I think, make a very powerful romantic drama. I make a present of the notion to rising playrights and THE THEATRE'S correspondents, and will claim no royalties, as I know from experience I would never receive them.

When the presumptuous dramatist approaches "Pendennis," the "Newcomes," and Thackeray's other "modern" novels, he finds much more character than dramatic incident. Pendennis himself would be voted a "prig" or a nuisance by ordinary playgoers, and though many might fall in love with George Warrington, they would have to admit that he was a hero rather of repose than of action. Yet, again, if the actor could be found who could adequately realize Major Pendennis or Captain Costigan, immortality would be within his reach. There are a few dramatic incidents in "Pendennis" nevertheless, notably the meeting between "Fitzaltamont" and "Captain Beak," as the much-married ruffian irreverently calls the major.

The "Newcomes," again, is full of dramatic incidents, but entirely devoid of theatrical

stage years ago had one of their own novelists created it. Thackeray seems to shrink from the morbid realism of the subject, yet cannot escape from the effects of his own creation. On the whole I am very glad that nobody has dreamed of putting Colonel Newcome on the stage. That monument of noble simplicity, devotion and humanity could only be treated as Shakespeare handles King Lear, and I very much doubt whether King Lear in white trousers and a high hat would be tolerated to-day. There is, by the way, still extant a domestic drama called "The Tear of Private Life;" but it had a brief and inglorious career, and is interesting only to the curious.

If I wished to see Thackeray on the stage, which I don't, I would make the dramatist a present of another notion, and turn his attention to "The Great Hoggarty Diamond," which might have been written for the stage, so simple is its story and so clearly drawn are its characters. I am surprised that no one of the audacious horde of playrights has attacked this subject. Mr. Thackeray here tells a story, and a beautiful one, too, without indulging in philosophy or digression, and I fancy tested his own powers as a story-teller merely. He grew tired of being told that he only excelled as a satirist, and gave the world "The Great Hoggarty Diamond" to prove that Goldsmith and Defoe had not monopolized the field.

By far the most dramatic of all Mr. Thackeray's works is "Barry Lyndon.” That marvellous book is a whirlwind of dramatic incident. Scene follows scene with such force and violence that the reader's breath is almost taken away. "Monte Christo" and "The Three Guardsmen are almost pastoral productions beside" Barry Lyndon," and characters are made living creatures by a sentence or two instead of through the elaborate methods of the author's other works. But I fancy no heroic actor wants to play "Barry Lyndon," and his life and adventures would reasonably be "caviare to the general."

"Dennis Duval" gave great promise of dramatic power, and had it been completed,.

would have added a new and unexpected leaf to Mr. Thackeray's laurel crown. Its opening chapters form a drama, though a melancholy one, themselves, and Dennis and his little sweetheart are poetic memories which linger in any hearts that have a touch of poetry remaining. The rough usage of the stage would have soiled their purity. They are better in their innocent sleep, where adversity and old age touches them not. On the whole, I don't think Thackeray will be dramatized. John M. Morton.

BOTH SIDES OF THE CURTAIN.

MR. COQUELIN and Mr. Irving have both had much to say, recently, about the art of acting, but now a lady steps into the breach and proves how much more interesting one woman can be than two men. When I say that the lady in question is the beautiful and gracious Madame Modjeska, Messrs. Coquelin and Irving will not object to the position I claim for her. Modjeska takes an eminently practical view of the art of acting, and in an address to the pupils of the Chicago Conservatory, says: "I carry my part in pocket until I am perfect in the lines. Then I study the characters in order to be true to nature." There is, it will be admitted, no great depth of thought in this utterance, but how singularly practical it is. Of course, Modjeska meant to imply that occasionally she took her part out of her pocket, or else she wouldn't have been able to study it at all. I know an actor who does more than this, for he puts his part under his pillow at night, and declares that by this means the words enter his head during sleep. Certainly, no one ever saw him studying, yet no one ever found him imperfect,

MADAME MODJESKA did not limit her advice to the Chicago pupils by telling them to carry their parts in their pockets. She told them they should have a knowledge of music, even if they neither played nor sang, should be well posted on poetry and general literature, and make a study of the history and manners of the period in which the various plays are laid. Let me hope the pupils will take the distinguished actress' advice, and if they do, and all go on the stage, an amount of intellectuality will be brought to the American theatre which ought to be of advantage to posterity. It is well for Madame Modjeska's peace of mind that she did not attempt to improve the average actor of the day by the aid of poetry, literature, and historical study. When he commits the lines of his part to memory and takes in the drift of the stage manager's directions, he thinks he has done about all the box-office demands of him. Indeed, not a few players think

rehearsals foolish and unnecessary, and are quite satisfied that they will be "all right at night," without any advice or preliminary preparation. These artistes would probably answer Madame Modjeska in their own peculiar language by asking the lady what she was giving them." They are not all as modest about their powers as the youth, made famous by Mr. Goodwin, who, upon being given a speech of exactly sixteen words, said to the stage manager, Say, cully, couldn't you condense it ?"

THE opera of "Erminie" made the New York public acquainted with Mr. Harry Paulton's peculiar humor, in its literary form, but now they have the opportunity of appreciating his talents as a comedian and comprehending the cause of his popularity in London. It may seem a strange thing to say about an actor who appears in the works of other people, but it is true, all the same, that Mr. Paulton is his own author. The playwright may give him a "part," with all the speeches carefully arranged and pithily written, but before the final rehearsals take place the author finds that there is very much more of Mr. Paulton than himself in the part, and about the second week of the of the play the author is found to have entirely disappeared. Mr. Paulton is, in short, the chartered libertine of the London stage, and, judging from the electrical success he has just made at the Standard Theatre, promises to secure a similar position in New York.

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66

HARRY PAULTON was once the most ambitious young actor in England. He yearned not only for greatness, but for legitimate fame. The text of his part was like holy writ to him, and interpolations, as gags are politely called, were revolting to his artistic and conscientious nature. But destiny was too much for him, and when his jokes and badinage made him a feature of the London stage he submitted and threw his classical aspirations to the winds. He certainly has not fulfilled the promises made to himself in the days of his youth, but he has contributed handsomely to the gaiety of nations, and what more can a comedian want. It's a funny thing about funny actors, that as soon as they find themselves able to make the public laugh they burn with an ambition to make that same public cry. Mr. Paulton, in his time, went even further than this and wanted to "thrill" his audience, just as the great Frederick Robson used to do in the burlesques of Media and "The Merchant of Venice." The public, however, were wiser than Mr. Paulton, and they accepted him, and with gratitude, too, as a humorist, but declined to shed tears or be thrilled at his bidding.

I WONDER if Harry Paulton's memory is keen enough to recall a scene of twenty odd years ago, in which he was a principal actor. My

authority is unimpeachable, and the story may interest the readers of THE THEATRE. Paulton was a member of a company playing at the Theatre Royal, Chesterfield, England. To enter the same theatre one had to go down an alleyway of gruesome aspect. Some melancholy

wag had written in apparently indelible chalk these words over the door: The Actor's Grave;" and another humorist had traced in similar characters this sentence: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." These funny fellows proved to be prophets, for the Theatre Royal, Chesterfield, killed the ambition of nearly every one who entered it, and a week in its grimy precincts would cause a Wall street broker or even an American dramatist to abandon hope. Harry Paulton, however, was the bright exception to the doleful rule, and though salaries were non-existent and provisions were precarious, he hoped on, and even inspired two of his fellowactors with feelings akin to his own. Twelve miles from Chesterfield was the relatively great and important town of Sheffield, where three theatres were running, and actors knew the blessings of regular salaries. That it was necessary to foot it to and from Sheffield was nothing to young Paulton and the companions he had inspired. When, however, the trio resolved themselves into a finance committee and found their combined res urces to be fourpence halfpenny, or nine cents, there was for a moment a diminution of ardor. But the prospect of engagements in Sheffield restored confidence, and the trio started on their journey. Economy, of course, was rigidly enforced, and the only refreshment in the twelve-mile walk was a quart of ginger-beer," costing three half-pence. Sheffield was reached and hours spent in pursuit of the managers, but vainly and wearily. The remaining three pence was invested at a baker's, and at dusk, tired, footsore, hungry and disheartened, the trio turned their faces southward on their way back to Chesterfield. At the end of the third mile one of the party showed signals of distress, and at the fifth, even Paulton himself wilted." The party came to a halt from their exhaustion, and as it happened were outside a jolly-looking roadside inn. One of the party, in a melancholy, mocking spirit, suggested that all three should turn their pockets inside out in search of wealth. It was supremely ridiculous, but was done nevertheless, and to their speechless amazement the solitary possessor of a purse found three sixpences and a three-penny "bit" which had been fost and forgotten in prosperous days. Oh joy, oh rapture! The wayside inn is taken by storm, and bread and cheese and brown stout disappear like ice before the sun. Pipes and tobacco follow, of course, and in a glowing speech Paulton predicts good fortune for everybody, and declares the finding of the sixpences an omen of future bliss. The journey back to Chesterfield is done at the rate of five mi es an hour, though the pedestrians had already walked over twenty-five and sure enough Paulton

found a letter waiting for him with an engagement in it, and more than that a postal order for enough cash to pay his fare to the Theatre Royal, Leeds. The good fortune of the other two did not arrive so promptly, but it came in time, and probably before it was deserved. Paulton's good luck never, I believe, deserted him since the incident I have narrated, and I am told by those who ought to know that he is entitled to all the favors fortune can give him.

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TOM NAST is giving his pencil and the read. ers of Harper's Weekly a rest. He is not idle, however, for he has taken to the lecture field, and is astonishing the good people of Montana and the adjacent territories by his views of men and things. I am sorry, however, to find that Mr. Nast accompanies his orations with caricatures. This savors too much of the "lightning artistes" of the variety stage to be worthy of the reputation of Mr. Nast, and the rest 'absolutely needed," which is supposed to have taken him away from New York, will hardly be secured by wielding the crayon in the lecture rooms of the Wild West.

The Man in the Street.

THE WEEK.

"FAUST."

ON Monday night last Mr. Henry Irving opened his third season in this country at the Star Theatre by a production of "Faust," with the same scenery and effects which made it so famous in London. With the exception of the substitution of Mrs. Chippendale for Mrs. Stirling as Martha, and Mr. Alexander for Mr. Conway as Faust, there were not many changes in the casting of the company. Much has already been said in THE THEATRE regarding this presentation of a famous subject. It was given here in all its entirety-that is, including "The Witches' Kitchen," which scene was not added until the latter part of the run in London. It was at the time fully described in THE THEATRE by Mr. Joseph Hatton, and the same article has since been published in the book entitled, "The Souvenir of Faust," now being circulated in America.

The spirit in which Mr. Irving and Miss Terry were received by the large and brilliant audience on the first night, indicates not only a healthy appetite in this country, but should have showed Mr. Irving a royal good feeling on the part of a people whose attention Doubtless it should deeply gratify him.

did, for he spoke feelingly at the end of the play when loud cries and persistent applause compelled him to voice his acknowledgment.

Mr. Will's spectacular play, adapted from the first part of Goethe's tragedy, is a noble piece of work. The atmosphere of it is thoroughly good, and as put on the stage by Mr. Irving it has some singular charms. The remarkable arrangement of scenic effects, the skillful attention paid to every little detail, and the generally elaborate way in which everything is carried out, is only another evidence that Mr. Irving is a complete master of his profession. As Mr. Winter has truly said an authentic glow of noble power invests every manifestation of his professional life: "His auditor is never depressed with the sense of being unworthily occupied, but steadily feels the force of a commanding intellect and an intense nature, concentrated on the sincere and beneficial treatment of momentous themes."

M. Coquelin in his criticism upon Mr. Irving finds fault because his Mephistopheles is not a mishapen and cloven-footed creature, according to the tenets of tradition, but surmising Mr. Irving's reasonings for making him as picturesque as he does, based upon my own philosophy, it seems to me that Coquelin is utterly wrong. Certainly Martha and Marguerite would not have tolerated the proximity of an incarnation such as M. Coquelin would make him, and I am very sure the devil in flesh would be much more of a devil if made ontwardly attractive. The greatest wickedness in the world is lured by beauty; the siren with evil intent bewitches and intoxicates her victim; the most beautiful reptile is the most venomous; and some of the handsomest men are the greatest scamps. Mr. Irving does not find it necessary to carry out the silly idea of an ugly personal devil. He has made it more real, more sensible, by treating Mephistopheles with all attention to the intellectual, rather than the physical side of the character.

The love of Marguerite and Faust is the story of this play. The apotheosis of the woman and the return of the man to the devil is the end of the piece, so that speculatively considered it would be rather difficult to reconcile the future happiness of Marguerite with the punishment of her lover. If any objections were made to the story for dramatic purposes, they would lie in the fact that there ought to be a complete triumph over Satan. However, this is neither here nor there, so let us discuss the play as it is: Dr. Faust agrees to a compact with Mephistopheles to become rejuvenated. He is introduced to the "Witches' Kitchen as a first step into the whirl of wallowing revel. Then he meets Marguerite, and their love goes astray; he kills her brother, and she be

comes an outcast. Finally Faust finds her wandering in despair and madness, and the ending is her death and an exquisite tableau of angels waiting for her soul.

Mr. Irving's creation of Mephistophles is a masterpiece of acting. Words cannot picture his Sardonic grins and hellish glees. The moments when you see an apparent decency on his face simply suggest that it is not Irving acting at all, but behind that human mask lurks only the spirit and entire thought of Evil. Nothing could be more effective than his entrance and exit in the different scenes; his graceful venture into the bedroom of Marguerite, his appearance in the garden, and his interruption of the duel between Faust and Valentine. What could be more diabolical than his acting in "The Witches' Kitchen," and again on the "Summit of Brocken?” His illusive humor, his repudiation of the right of anything to exist but himself, his utter scorn and his laughing contumely.

There are some people who can be merry on all occasions. There were some who gave bold ha-ha's on Monday night when the weird humor of Mephistopheles should have brought the closest attention; there were many who gave the whole performance as much thought as if they would have centered upon the incantation scene in the "Black Crook." But to the student there is too much conveyed to the mind to allow him to be other than mute in profound attention.

Miss Terry's assumption of Marguerite is a picture of the sweetest kind of womanhood. It is tender, lovely, and poetic, but emphatically human, because you cannot forget the delightful person of Ellen Terry. Mr. Alexander acts Faust with discretion and grace.

The climax in startling theatrical accomplishment was reached in the scene on the Brocken. In the apotheosis nothing so beautiful and ingeniously artistic as the living tableau of angels has ever been seen on our stage. The music arrangement which accompanied the performance is strikingly effective and superbly played. The use also of a large organ is peculiarly impressive. Fileur.