has been said that Sheridan's address upon the opening of the proceedings for impeachment has no parallel in the annals of ancient or modern eloquence. Burke and Fox praised it in the most extravagant manner, while Pitt declared that it “possessed everything that genius or art could furnish, to agitate and control the human mind." It is much to be regretted that this masterly effort was unreported, and that no perfect record of it exists to-day, those given in the Annual Registers and Parliamentary Debates being but brief sketches of a stupendous work of genius. Sheridan continued in Parliament until the year 1811, when he was defeated in his candidature for his old seat of Stafford, and his career in the House of Commons was at an end.

His course up to about fifteen years from this period was that of a bright and ever rising star, but the moment of declension came, and his failure at Stafford was the first step to his utter ruin. He had, during his meteor-like career, formed many warm friendships, and among them that of the Prince Regent, an association which was in no sense a benefit to the orator and dramatist, and which resulted in the end in the bitter neglect and ingratitude of one who should have experienced for him no other feeling than that of the warmest affection. Sheridan was improvident, and became involved in debt; he was dissipated and his health was undermined-he was tormented by a thousand anxieties, and his once strong constitution broke down under the perpetual strain, and on the 7th of July, 1816, in the shadow of poverty, with only his devoted wife and a few true friends near him, deserted by the many who, in the days of his plenitude, had laughed at the sallies of his wit and partaken of his lavish hospitality, harassed by duns and bailiffs for debts which he could not pay, and with the gloom of a prison before his eyes, this glorious spirit left the earth he had adorned by his genius, a genius so brilliant and dazzling as to conceal the many errors of its possessor, and cause us, in the words of his biographer, "to rest satisfied with the Martyr, without requiring also the Saint." He was buried in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey, and was attended to his last resting-place by a small army of Dukes, Earls, Princes of the blood and Officers of State, the pomp of his obsequies standing out in painful contrast with the neglect with which in his lingering days of darkness his former friends and flatterers had treated him. "Where," asks Moore, with a burst of honest indignation, "where were they all but a few weeks

before, when their interposition might have saved his heart from breaking, or when the zeal, now wasted on the grave, might have soothed and comforted the bed of death?"

"Oh, it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And friendship so false in the great and high-bornTo think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died, friendless and lorn! "How proud they can press to the funeral array

Of him whom they shunned in his sickness and sor

row

How bailiffs may sieze his last blanket to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!'

Sheridan was twice married, his second wife being a Miss Ogle, daughter of the Dean of Winchester, a most estimable and affectionate woman, who did not long survive her gifted husband. Hy. Edwards.

HOME DECORATION.

FEW American homes are tastefully or artistically furnished and adorned. The lack of harmony in colors and general arrangement often borders upon the ludicrous. How offensive to the eye and harrowing to the nerves of a close observer is the mingling of valuable works of art with the many base imitations of both art and nature! The recent craze for the antique has led many housewives to gather around them such a collection of commonplace articles that their rooms often have the appearance of cheap art museums, or smack of the novelty and dollar stores. Too often you will see some celebrated painting from one of the grand old masters placed against a wall covered with gaudy paper, surrounded by cheap chromos, coarse daubs by amateurs, or, worse still, unsightly articles of home manufacture-things that no housewife, unless she has an artistic eye and skillful hands, should ever attempt, much less exhibit in her parlors. I never enter a room so adorned but the wish takes possession of me to gratify a childish desire: build a bon-fire or a play-house. To the young housekeepers I would say, if you cannot purchase genuine works of art, avoid all shams. Such things can never give the real elegance to a home that all should strive to obtain. Have perfect harmony in value and colors, in furnishing; add flowers, birds, books and music; they have a most pleasing effect, and in them there is nothing to offend the eye of the most sensitive lover of the beautiful.

Emil L. Bickley

THE WEEK.

"ELAINE."

MR. PALMER is to be congratulated upon having in his company an actress so delicate, poetical, and yet chastely passionate, as Miss Annie Russell, while that young lady should be happy in having a manager with sufficient courage and taste to produce

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Elaine." The play which Messrs. Lathrop and Edwards have built upon Tennyson's exquisite idyl has no boisterons incident, only one "situation," and is entirely devoid of comedy. With plenty of such possibilities, it is not treated as a spectacle, and the stage-carpenter's skill has not been used to produce a tournament scene, as might have occurred to many dramatists who chose "Elaine" as their theme. Messrs. Lathrop and Edwards have, indeed, avoided many invitations held out by the poet's lines, and have exhibited a fidelity to Tennyson's spirit and purpose which does them high honor.

Any one with a decent knowledge of stage-craft can fancy what the "practical play-wright" would have done with "Elaine" had he been engaged to place it on the stage. Processions, "groupings," tournaments, panoramas, and, no doubt, even a ballet, would have filled the stage, while Elaine, Lancelot, Arthur and Guinevere would have flitted in and about the pictures, bringing a faint odor of poetry to a Black Crook vulgarity. Elaine, like a lily-of-the-valley, might have looked wistfully on, now and again, but the gorgeous dahlias and flashing verbenas of the spectacular manager would have blighted her sweet existence, and made her poetry only a possible incident in a glittering scene of voluptuous splendor.

Happily, the task of transferring Tennyson's sweetest and deepest idyl to the stage was undertaken by gentlemen who have not allowed their practical knowledge of the stage to obliterate, or even deaden their appreciation of poetry in its higest and purest sense. Hence, in the "Elaine" of last Tuesday night, at the Madison Square Theatre, is a work which does honor to the stage; and if, as I hope, it hold that stage for a few months, will be the highest proof of the intelligence of a public which is often slandered, when its taste is measured by what theatrical managers set before it. I doubt if any other director in New York has the courage and fine feeling to set such a play before an audience as Mr. Palmer exhibits in producing "Elaine." I am quite certain that in London no such performance

more

is possible, not from inherent incapacity on the part of English managers and artists, but from the too easily realized fear that the public want "stronger meat," and vivid pictures than are to be found in "The Idyls of the King" Then, again, if Mr. Irving, or one of his rivals, thought of putting Tennyson on the stage, he would ask the permission of the poet, who would either dramatize the story himself, or insist that any other person doing so should regard his text as holy writ, in which a word omitted would be only a less profane act than a phrase interpolated. Messrs. Lathrop and Edwards, untrammeled by these restrictions, were the freest of free lances, and it is but bare justice to say that they have not allowed their exceptional liberty to develop into unhallowed license. They have treated their poet not only with respect, but reverence. They have seemed (though this may be a fancy) to add their lines, when it was necessary, with humble misgiving, and to "cut" Tennyson with feelings little short of anguish. They do not, after all, present "Elaine" as a perfect play, with even a tolerable respect for the "unities," but rather as a series of poetic pictures to illustrate a story of marvellous beauty and color. Possibly the audience of last Tuesday may have been more sympathetic than the average one will prove, but I cannot help thinking, from the effect produced by "Elaine," that the poet, the dramatists, Mr. Palmer, and his actors, took the spectators out of themselves for a few hours, and did all that Beethoven does when he is interpreted by sympathetic souls to congenial listeners.

How "Elaine" is treated in its dramatic form has been often narrated in these pages. The company acting it, having rehearsed and experimented with it elsewhere, must now be judged as doing the best within their powers. As a whole, Elaine" is, though not a perfect production, one so nearly so as to stand comparison with any performance within ordinary memory.

When Mr. Palmer is able to get an actor of such remarkable ability and ripe expereince as Mr. Flockton to play the Dumb Servitor, which the average utility man would scornfully refuse, it is seen that either he is a master of discipline, or has inspired his players with the true but rare spirit of unselfish art. Miss Annie Russell, of course, claims the first place among Mr. Palmer's players, and, as "Elaine." does all and more than the grace and beauty of her early achievements promised. Lord Tennyson himself might feel a throb of gratified ambition, could he see Miss Russell embody

ing his lovely picture and speaking his sweet-toned verse. It has been objected that this young lady makes Elaine" too tender, fragile and childish, but since she dies of love and nothing else, she can hardly be treated like a Cassandra, or even with the gentleness of Desdemona. Undaunted by Shakespeare's undisputed dictum that nobody ever died of love, Tennyson creates "Elaine" as a protest against a philosophical truth, which hampers the poetical imagination. Miss Russell lost herself in "Elaine," and, from her first modest appearance to the pathetic tragedy of the death scene, caused her audience to forget her identity also. It is difficult in such a sweet and noble performance, so harmoniously complete, to single out individual points, but the little passage in which Elaine fears to leave the wounded Lancelot alone, and with meek joy accepts her brother's permission to tend him, may be cited as an example of Miss Russell's perfect art and inspiration. Many or most actresses would have taken the opportunity of being a trifle coquettish in this incident, but Miss Russell avoided the temptation, and was simply natural in her regret at leaving the wounded warrior, as she was maidenly joyous in being permitted to sit at his feet and worship him. Russell has shown in Elaine that she is above the puerilities of Esmeralda and the trivialities of Hazel Kirke, and proves that even without a school of acting, our stage can produce actresses capable of coping with the creation of the noblest and deepest poets.

Miss

Mr. Salvini's Lancelot had all that bright young actor's grace, force, and magnetism, and made a distinct and powerful impression on the audience. He lacked however, that nameless something which would have proved his appreciation of Tennyson's hero. Nevertheless, I hardly know where to look for a better Lancelot, and heartily congratulate Mr. Salvini on the mastery he has acquired over the English language. He has a great future before him, which, I trust, he will realize and help to perpetuate the greatest name of the modern stage. Miss Burroughs was a charming picture as Queen Guinevere, was abundantly intelligent also, but somewhat overweighted in the part. Arthur's Queen is not in her first youth during the "Elaine" episode, and would be better interpreted by an actress of more maturity of person and experience. The rest of the cast was almost flawless, and Mr. Massen threw much intelligent character into the part of Sir Torre. Mr. Marston's scenery was, of course, exquisite and appropriate, and the

IN the production of "Madelon," the This is what The Post says: "Lecocq's comic opera Messrs. Aronson have demonstrated their 'Madelon' was produced at the Casino last night for general abilities better than they have ever the first time in America. For three hours the players been shown. No comic opera has been and singers waded through the dreariest rubbish in the seen here with such gorgeous setting and way of a libretto that has been seen here in some time. such perfect detail. With the exception of The characters come and go without the slightest reason, that delightful pair of thieves in Erminie,' and the veriest thread of a plot is only elucidated by the there is everything in Madelon' to give argument printed upon the programme. The drivel of it a more prosperous career. Certainly the the average operetta is exceeded in the case of Madmusic is much superior, and is so constantly delon.' There are a good many characters, and the stage vigorous as to make it almost irresistible in grouping is at times beautiful and effective. The music is the temptation to waver the pulse in beatdecidedly not up to the composer's earlier work. Here ing time. "Erminie" excels in its libretto, and there there is a song which is 'catchy.' and the finale for there Madelon" is somewhat doubtof the second act is effective; otherwise there is little in ful. In the way of scenery, the erection of the operetta to commend.

the barricade in the second act is a magnifiThe players were handicaped by the boldness of their cent tableau that would make the heart of lines, and walked through their parts in a perfunctory a De Neuville throb. The performance

way. Lillian Grubb as Madelon was affected with a disshows the remarkable strength of Mr. tressing shortness of breath, and her meagre voice was

Aronson's company. Miss Urquhart has

less pleasant than ever. She was very pretty and her created a genuine enthusiasm over her succhanges of wigs were somewhat bewildering. Bertha cess in the character of Pompanon. It was Ricci as Trompette was not in good voice, but acted in a never, even by her greatest admirers, susclever way. Isabelle Urquhart, as Pompanon, acted with pected she had the dramatic intelligence more spirit than usual, and was competent. Rabicamp she now displays in this. She has easily was played by Mark Smith rather well, but his singing leaped to the position of “leading lady" in was not up to his usual standard. Courtice Pounds would the Casino Company.

have been more effective than he was as Jolivett if he had

Those who have imagined that Courtice made himself heard and walked less like a jointed doll. Pounds had lost his voice-judging by its The comedy was furnished by James T. Powers as Tabereffects in "The Marquis," should hear the reau, the inn-keeper, and it was of a most distressing

duet between him and Miss Ricci, in the kind. It is a deplorable fact that there are so few real first act. Some of his notes in this are comedians on the comic opera stage, and that the idea simply delicious. Miss Grubb, Mr. Powers, of the majority seems to be that "horse-play" is the acme and Mark Smith do some hard work in of comedy."

"Madelon," and it is very acceptable to a large number of people.

All there is about it, Lecocq's opera is (in my estimation) worth hearing more than once. I know I shall enjoy it still better the next time. I like its dash and spirit, the brilliancy of its scenery and costumes; its pretty girls, and the Casino's fascinating atmosphere. I am glad I am not a "critic.' If I were, I would probably have strange bilious attacks, then I suppose I would write just like fury. If you will read between some of my lines you will find that a writer in The Post does not think as I do. Fileur.

THE BOY PHENOMENON. MASTER JOSEF HOFMANN may be set down as the reigning wonder. The boy phenomenon has been heard in several public concerts, and all the eminent musicians, critics, and authorities who have studied his playing, have almost universally declared him to be both artist and phenomenon; and artist and phenomenon he is. Some have, of course, discovered certain faults in his style and methods, but then our greatest piano virtuoso are by no means faultless artistically. Judging Master Hofmann from an ideal standpoint is unjust and even illogical. He has his own individual style of interpretation. We cannot term it conception, because, outside of a few minor defects, which can, in the case of a boy like Master Hofmann, be impressed upon the mind by training, the musician has to trust in the abstract to his inspirational instincts, when he does not play from the composer's score, and then he automatically follows out the signs, terms and phrasing indicated. When we use the words "inspirational instincts "we imply memory; but then the faculty for retaining musical impressions upon the mind is different from those other faculties, as classified in phrenological works.

Every pianist has his own style and method of interpretation when he chooses to discard the composer's arrangement, and in performing any given piece much difference may be observed between the methods of several artists, as every performer impresses his own individuality upon his work. But, mark, not necessarily the intellectual; only the musical individuality. We know individuals who perform to some extent upon the pianoforte, who are en

dowed with the finest intellectual attributes, and who musically pale beside Rubenstein or such artists. If a person has a highlycultured mind it does not follow that he must be a great musician, neither does it follow that all great musicians are necessarily highly cultured. True culture means the development of the reasoning and metaphysical powers, principally. Then the other faculties of "tune," color, size, form, and so on, come next. To assume that the possession of highly-cultivated musical gifts always indicates culture is a most indiscriminating fallacy. In fact, some of the most gifted composers and, virtuoso, the world has seen were notoriously uncultured, and lacked high moral instincts. Then there have been others, and there are living now, musicians who are individuals of fine honor and integrity, and who possess culture in the true sense.

Master Josef Hofmann, as a pianist, possesses a wonderful musical intellect, and, as a mere boy-say child,-is a phonomenon and an intelligent artist as well. The kind of intellect he is gifted with is merely musical, and the instincts brought into play are those of tone, tune and time. In addition to this musical genius, the boy in undoubtedly very bright in the sense in which the word is applied to boys. In improvising. Master Hofmann displays little genius, yet it is something wonderful-what he does accomplish-for a child of his age.

Mr. Wheeler (Nym Crinkle) studied and dissected Josef Hofmann at his leisure, and has announced that the boy is only a phenomenon. We confess to having a profound respect for Mr. Wheeler's high intellectual gifts, and for the man, because he always preaches and urges the trne gospel of art, as it is related to mysticism. When we remember that all conflicting opinions as to whether or not Josef Hofmann is only a phenomenon, are referable only to a standard of æsthetics, we refuse to believe Mr. Wheeler infallible. On the contrary, upon musical matters, we believe that the gentleman-with all respect-is likely to be wrong, often. We have in mind how Mr. Wheeler discovered Babel, the cow-boy pianist, a couple of years ago, with the result that when he (Babel) appeared publicly he was found to be devoid of genius by the specialists, and dropped into the museum line, only to disappear from publie notice entirely

financially, the receipts for the first week reaching $21,000. Julius Cæsar" was given during entire week, and "Othello" for the opening attraction of the present week. It is seldom that an opportunity of witnessing performances by artists of so great merit, is afforded the public, and even rarer that the principals are surrounded by a strong supporting company capable of filling acceptably the minor characters of the cast. The company

selected to support the two famous tragedians is notably efficient, and entitled to a generous share of the praise given to the performance as a whole. Mr. Henry Irving follows the present engagement, opening December 12, in "Faust."

The first performance of "Deacon Brodie" in this city drew a crowded house at the Arch Street Theatre. The innate strength of the play, accompanied by the prestige attached to it by its author. and the excellence of the company, could scarcely ensure anything but a striking success. Miss Annie Robe, who, as Mary Brodie, made her first appearance before a Philadelphia audience, was well received and made a very favorable impression by her intelligent rendition of a rather unimportant character.

The audiences at the Walnut Street Theatre during the past week have been so large, that Miss Pixley has decided to continue "The Deacon's Daughter" during the final week of her engagement. This charming actress has always been a favorite in this city, and her present visit has been attended with a phenominal success. Manager

Fleishman informs me that he could have filled his house had it been twice as large, and his statement is verified by the nightly appearance of the standing room only placard. Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence appear next week in a repertoire of their plays.

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"Erminie" entered on the third week of its run at the Chestnut Street Theatre, and the audiences continue large and appreciative. The bill for the week at the other theatres is probably the poorest ever presented here, comprising such rubbish as "A Boom in Matrimony,' The Old Oaken Bucket," and "Peck's Bad Boy."

Morton's famous comedy, "Speed the Plough,” will be revived at the Broad Street Theatre, Dec. 26th, with Mr. John S. Clarke as Sir Abel Handy. Mr. Creston Clarke will appear as Bob Handy, and the other characters will be given by Miss Olga Brandon, Mrs. Creese and Mrs. Germon.

Mr. Clarke has lined the walls of the smokingroom of his theatre with the most interesting collection of theatrical portraits ever exhibited in this city. Prominent among the valuable works is a portrait of David Garrick, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Portraits of Edwin Forrest, J. B. Booth, Edmund Kean, Charles Fechter, Joseph Jefferson, Robert Palmer, J. B. Buckstone, John E. Owens Thomas King, the original Sir Peter Teazle, and Mrs. Nisbett, the original Lady Gay Spanker, are included in the collection. One painting, modestly hung on the top row, represents Mr Clarke as Bob Acres, and Mrs. Stirling as Mrs. Malaprop.

Jefferies.

THE PAGE'S LOVE SONG.
YES, I must speak; altho' I die;
Yet my love shall last forever;
My spirit sure will bear my sigh,
And from you never sever:
For I have watched you, lady fair,
From childhood unto woman grown,
Yet never dared my love declare,

Or even call my soul my own.

That soul is yours, to own fore'er, No power can it from you take, 'Twas sacred, giv'n as a prayer

To heaven, yielded for your sake; For I have loved you, lady fair,

From boyhood seen that woman grown, Yet never dared my love declare, I could not call my soul my own. And soul has felt your presence bright,

As sun, the rose, in smiles has wreathed, Your anger that sweet flower would blight, Like frost that on its leaves has breathed. For I have loved you, lady fair,

From childhood unto woman grown, Yet never dared my love declare ;

How could I call my soul my own? No words of love my tongue could speak, For ne'er would I an ingrate be. Altho' I felt this heart would break For lack of thy dear sympathy, Yet have I waited, lady fair,

The day I must that love make known; The day I must that love declare

And dare to call my soul my own. Now to the wars I'm called away, Your father's standard proud I'll bear; 'Tis honor's call forbids me stay;

Your image in my heart I'll wear, For I have tended, lady fair,

Your childhood's steps to woman grown, Your house's fortune glad to share,

Or die to say my soul's their own. If I from you dare ask some token, A ribbon, flower, or a glove, I'd surely think that heaven had spoken A blessing on me from above. You will!! Oh, rapture!! Lady fair, This gift to me will victory crown, And win the day from those who dare To say my soul is not your own. Richard Pope Cooke.

Hout in all veathers, sir? Vy in coorse we is ve 'as to, fur to make a 'onest livin'-Q'vere sights, sir? Vell, I sh'd say we did-sights as ud melt the 'art of a brass monkey, if 'e 'ad one-O, yes, sir, hi'm a Cockn'y, born vithin the sound 'o Bo' bells, Paradise Coort, number von, Bell Lane, Lundun, an' I ain't 'shamed on it neither.