"THE GLADIATOR.” WHILE this play may contain many oppor tunities of heroic flight and moral butchery, it hardly serves to enrich what we have gained already from Salvini's art. It is a dramatic melange of history and romance, so damp in some parts that it benumbs our interests, so dry in others that it excuses us for a while. All the elegance of Salvini's presence, his vocal charms, could not in any way make up for the vapidity which his powers have imposed on us in the repetition of this most sacrilegious "entertainment." As The Gladiator Signor Salvini does nothing more than accentuate his better triumphs. He is ever the artist whose egotism is unfelt; never strenuous, never dissonant: but, in this character, he himself must perceive the incontinent passages and morbid growth of a drama. not dying, but dead. As Faustina, Miss Brookyn is happily successful; except that she frequently loses control of her voice in attempting to ascend to a height of majesty somewhat lunar in her idealization of the part. Miss Whinnery of Philadelphia could teach her many things. Miss O'Neill makes nothing of Neodamia. Mr. Malone is intolerable as Flavian; he neither looks nor speaks the part. Mr. Fawcett might be a little more distinct in his articulation. "OUR FLAT." Ariel. MONDAY night last, before a large and in some respects, a brilliant" audience, the English play "Our Flat," was presented by one of Mr. Frohman's companies, at the Lyceum Theatre. This three act farcical comedy had its first performance April 10, 1889, at Winter Gardens Theatre, Southport, England. On April 17 it was done at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, Liverpool, and had its London hearing June 13, at a matinee at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, the occasion being the annual benefit given to Wm. Greet. The play is by Mrs. Musgrove. The story is as follows: Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Sylvester, (H. B. Conway and Mrs. Boucicault), a young married couple, have taken a top flat in a house situated in Earl's Court. London, Eng. Margery Sylvester, nee Margery McCullum, left a home of luxury, and married without her parents' consent. The husband, who is an author of penny dreadfuls and bucket of blood dramas, is away down on his ' luck, publishers and managers refusing his effusions. Clarence Vane (Morton Selten), an artist and friend, has the flat underneath, and is in love with Mrs. Sylvester's sister, Lucy, (Miss Stoffer). Margery tries in vain to persuade her husband to write lighter and more amusing stories and dramas. She has written "A Sketch of Married Life' for a magazine, and she determined to turn it into a farcical comedy. Under the title of "Near the Wind," she sends it to the manager of the Star Theatre, giving her husband's name as its author. The piece is accepted, and she awaits the coming of the manager to make the final arrangements. Tradespeople are pressing hard for the payment of their bills, and the furniture having been bought on the instalment plan, the owners send their men and remove it, the purchasers having failed to pay the instalment when due. The manager arrives mid the confusing position of having no furniture, and he mistakes the servant for the mistress. The husband returns, thinks the manager has come for one of his tragedies, and is calmed by his wife proving to him that the public want laughter instead of tears. Margery's father then comes on the scene, and, as his favorite daughter, Lucy, has run away and married Vane, the father accuses Margery of persuading her sister into matrimony with a penniless artist, disowns both his daughters. The farcical comedy of Margery's is produced, and the success is substantial. McCullum (Thomas Whiffen), sees in old Brown a picture of himself, and expresses his indignation to Reginald. The confession of his daughter that she wrote the piece causes him to relent. In this country where the "trades people" are not held in the same relation as they are in England the various allusions and conduct in regard to them are not appreciated. There is no reason why the piece should not have been Ang icised, as experiences here in Flat-houses would be quite as interesting. In fact I don't see why Mr. Frohman should have gone across the water for this play when his own writers Messrs. Belasco and De Mille, would have done quite as well, if not better. The hit of the play is, undeniably, Mrs. Thorndyke-Boucicault. She surprised everyone. She fairly sparkled. Her light comedy makes her a possible second to Ada Rehan. She is extremely graceful, original, and artistic. Mr. Conway is handsome, gentlemanly, and interesting. I know him to be out of his element in this line of work however, for all of his successes have been in old comedy. There is something about him that suggests a composite of lamented Montague and the now popular Charles Coghlan. Mr. Whiffin as old McCullum is delightful, and Mr. Cotton as Glover, the manager, does some absurdly eccentric acting. In fact, all the parts are well done. Miss Alliston, as the cook, should be mentioned particularly, and Mr. and Mrs. Selten and Miss Russell are most excellent. IT Everybody should see "Our Flat" and laugh. Fileur. ONCE MORE. seems to me that if managers of theatres secure good leaders of orchestras and insist upon their securing a competent corps of assistants, the public will soon find it out and that it will not only add to the attractiveness of the house of entertainment, but prevent many people from leaving their seats between the acts. And the managers and leaders must provide their wares first. They cannot tell the public that if they will only come, and if they will only sit still, they shall be provided with better music very shortly. They should be already with the best the market affords. And if it does not afford better orchestral music than we had last season at most of the theatres, then all I have to say is that New York is a very poor market for music. If already, let them throw open their doors and invite the public and criticism. No one needs place himself in an apologetic state. Another needed reform, perhaps, too sweeping in its scope in the present condition of affairs, is the providing plenteous promenade room, so that ladies can leave their seats, with their escorts, between the acts, if they so desire. Many women, as well as men, find great discomfort in being cramped in one position for three hours. And let me once more insist upon the leader of an orchestra, making the conducting of his aids his sole business. Let not his attention be distracted by the playing of any instrument by himself. Unless, perhaps, for an occasional solo. He cannot as properly lead, and his attendants receive very little, if any, benefit from him. William F. Sage. "THE DEAD HEART." AGREAT many suggestions have been made as to the source from which "The Dead Heart" was taken, and "Maison Rouge" has been quoted as if no one had ever heard of the famous situation at its end. Again, it may be that the piece owes something to one of the best-known novels in the world "Monte Cristo." Landry, with variations, of course, is the Count; Catherine Duval is Mercedes; and the other principal characters of both works will be found to match, allowance being of course made for the alteration and search for novelty that an adapter who wished to ignore the source of his inspiration would naturally introduce. It seems to us in the highest degree probable that, if Alexandre Dumas had not been staying in Florence in 1841, and had not been requested by Prince Jerome Napoleon to take his son for a yachting expedition and "teach him France." the stage of the Lyceum Theatre would now be occupied with something other than the "Dead Heart." To show wherein the characters of the drama lack character would be futile. A writer of Adelphi pieces thirty years ago had little thought of anything except "situations" likely to prolong to the fullest possible extent the run of his play. Writers of the period, however, hit on excellent ideas, and "The Dead Heart" is rich in effective scenes, especially in those which surround the part of Landry. If we can refrain from inquiring too curiously into motives, Landry is throughout the play an extremely forcible part, and when Mr. Irving brings to bear upon it his power and extraordinary personality the result is of necessity deeply interesting and impressive. Sympathy is awakened for the young sculptor when it is seen how deadly and determined are the enemies upon his track; and Mr. Irving has never played with more lightness and ease than in the earlier scenes of this work. His opportune arrival in Catherine's chamber while she is repulsing the Comte de St.-Valery, followed by his doubts of Catherine's fidelity and his unexpected arrest by a file of soldiers led by the treacherous Abbe Latour, form stirring episodes; and then we have the attack on the Bastille and the resurrection of Landry. The awakening of Landry to mental life is a really great situation for a great actor, and Mr. Irving so treats it as to leave an ineffaceable picture on the memory. In two scenes Mr. Irving is simply sublime; he touches the limits of his art. These are the meeting with the Abbe Latour, whom he has summoned from his dungeon to the room in the prison where the victim of the Bastille now holds sway, and the interview with Catherine at the foot of the guillotine on the early morning of the day that is to end her young son's life. Latour, who would otherwise be executed, is to be allowed to fight for his life, to cross swords with the man against whom he has committed the deadly wrong, but one feels from the moment that the treacherous Abbe enters the chamber that he is inevitably doomed. By what means Mr. Irving is able thus to impress his audience we cannot pretend to say. There is an unsurpassable dignity in his bearing, but more than dignity is needed. It is impossible to see the play, however, without experiencing the sentiment indicated; and the fight, when presently it comes, is of altogether startling reality. The weapons are the cut-and-thrust military swords of the period, and with these M. Bertrand, that past master of stage fencing, has devised a fight which we have never seen equalled for correctness and brilliancy. The swordsmanship both of Mr. Irving and Mr. Bancroft is as striking and as seemingly spontaneous as is M. Bertrand's invention. The Abbe's treacherous attempt before his adversary is on guard is a forcible touch, and nothing could be better than the final lunge which kills Latour. He has thrust at Landry and overreached, whereupon Landry, using a method once familiar in Italian fencing, plunges his sword into his enemy's breast. What is perhaps most remarkable in Mr. Irving's acting in this scene is the complete and masterly repose, which marks the highest control of the actor's art. lotine, gazing for the last time upon the world he is to leave. No doubt the situation does much, but we recognize an inexplicable something in feature and attitude which proclaims the result of inspiration and skill combined. Miss Terry is winsome and charming in her early scene with her lover at the "Belle Jardieniere," and heartbroken at the suspicion directed against her when Landry finds St.-Valery in her room. There is the genuine ring of pathos, again, in her prayer to Landry for her son's life. The character, it is needless to say, could not be better played. Perhaps the best study of the period is the Abbe Latour, and Mr. Bancroft, as was naturally to be expected, shows an excellent appreciation of the sentiments which would have swayed the aristocrat of that day-the eve and the fierce noon of the Revolution. It is not quite that the Abbe regards the people simply with contempt-he evidently does not suppose that they belong to the same order of created beings as himself and his equals; and this is the true reading. He is a brave man, and his complete indifference to the howls of the mob as his captors lead him to the Conciergerie is particularly well expressed. He condescends somewhat-perhaps a thought too much—when found in the cellar under the wardership of Toupet; but the final scene with Landry is fully admirable. Brave as he is, for a moment he falters, for he feels his hour is come; but bis courage revives, and he dies with a last struggle to cry "Long live the King!" The exhibition of the handkerchief he has pressed to his wound, stained with arterial blood, is an effective touch, quite permissible in melodrama. It is gratifying to recognize the merit of Mr. Gordon Craig's earnest and sympathetic performance of the younger St.- Valery; and Mr. Arthur Stirling well understands what to do with the part of Legrande, Miss Kate Phillips's vivacious representation of Cerisette affords some relief; and Mr. Righton's Toupet, if not very comic, is at least not obtrusive. With what energy and reality the mob which attacks the Bastille and clusters round the gate of the Conciergerie conducts itself need not be described, seeing that Mr. Irving has himself drilled his people; nor can it be necessary to say that the piece is put upon the stage in the matter G scenery and costume with the most perfect taste and judgment. The scene with Catherine before the scaffold is no less fine. The dim light and the sudden glint of an early sunbeam on the knife of the guillotine as morning breaks-an hour after dawn the slaughter is to begin once moregreatly aid the effect, if it be not a species of injustice to comment on merely mechanical devices when speaking of such an actor and actress; and Mr. Irving's mysterious gift of dominating spectators, even when no word is spoken, is most strikingly displayed in the final tableau, where, having resolved to yield up his own life to save the son of the woman he loved, Landry stands erect on the platform of the guil- | —London Saturday Review. JEFFERSON'S EARLY DAYS. THE November Century contains a part of an autobiography by Joseph Jefferson. Among his early reminiscences he writes in speaking of his first trip to the west : "As I remember it, our journey was long, but not tedious. We travelled part of the way in a fast sailing packet-boat on the Erie issuing from can remem Canal, the only smoke the caboose stovepipe. I ber our party admiring this craft with the same enthusiasm that we now express in looking at a fine ocean steamer. She was painted white and green. and enlivened with blue window blinds, and a broad red stripe running from bow to stern. Her name was the Pioneer, which was to us most suggestive, as our little band was among the early dramatic emigrants to the far west. The boat resembled a Noah's Ark with a flat roof, and my father like the patriarch of old, took his entire family on board, with this distinction, however-he was required to pay his passage, it being understood between him and the captain that we should stop a night in Utica and one in Syracuse, give a theatrical entertainment in each place, and hand over the receipts in payment of our fare. We acted in Utica for one night, and the receipts were quite good. My father and mother were in high spirits, and there is no doubt that the captain had hopes that the next night's entertainment in Syracuse would liquidate our liabilities, for there was a visible improvement in the coffee at breakfast, and an extra piece of pie all around for dinner. The next night, unfortunately, the elements were against us; it rained in torrents and the attendance was light, so that we were short of our passage money about ten dollars. The captain being a strict member of the church, he could not attend either of the performances, and as he was in his heart most anxious to see what acting was like, he proposed that if the company would cut up" for him and give him a private show in the cabin he would call it "square." Our actors being highly legitimate declined; but my mother, everanxious to show off the histrionic qualities of her son, proposed that I should sing some comic songs for the captain, and so ransom the rest of the actors. The captain turned it over in his mind,-being, I am afraid, a little suspicious of my genius, but after due consideration consented. So he prepared himself for the entertainment, the cook and my mother comprising the rest of the audience. The actors had wisely retired to the upper deck, as they had been afflicted on former occasions. I now began a dismal comic song called, "The Devil and Little Mike." It was not very brilliant but quite long. some twenty-five verses, each one containing two lines with a large margin of "whack fol de riddle." It was never quite clear whether the captain enjoyed this entertainment or not; my mother said he did, for though the religious turn of his mind would naturally suppress any desire to applaud, he said even before I had half finished that he was quite satisfied. On our arrival in Buffalo we found another pioneer company, under the management of Dean and McKenney. Here we staid over two or three days, waiting for the steamer to take us up the lakes. Marble was starring there; he was one of the first and best of the Yankee comedians. In those days the stage New Englander was acted and dressed in a most extravagant manner. I remember seeing Marble play, and his costume was much after the present caricature of Uncle Sam, minus the stars, but glorying in the stripes. In a few days we steamed up the beautiful lakes of Erie, Huron and Michigan. The boat would stop sometimes for hours at one of the stations to take in wood or a stray passenger, and then the Indians would paddle out to us in their canoes offering their beadwork and moccasins for sale. Sometimes we would go ashore and walk on the beach gathering pebbles, carnelians, and agates. I thought them of immense value, and kept my treasures for years afterwards. What a lovely trip it was as I remember it! Lake Huron at sunset is before me now-a purple sky melting into a golden horizon; rich green foliage on the banks; yellow sand with many-colored pebbles making the beach of the lake; the clear and glassy water; groups of Indians lolling on the banks, smoking their pipes and making baskets, their little villages dotting the hills with tents made of skins and painted canvas; blue smoke curling slowly up in the calm summer air; and all the bright colors reflected in the lake. I stood there as a boy skimming flat stones over the surface of the water, and now as I write in the autumn of my life, these once quiet shores are covered with busy cities; the furnaces glow with melted iron, the locomotive screams and whistles along the road where once the ox teams used to carry the mail, and corner lots and real-estate agents "fill the air." So day by day passed, until one night a light is espied in the distance, then another, and then many more dance and reflect themselves in the water. It is too late to go ashore, so we drop anchor. At sunrise we are all on deck looking at the haven of our destination, and there in the morning light, on the shores of Lake Michigan |