time they introduced to the public Matilda Heron. It was about this time also that they gave at the old Academy of Music the first series of promenade concerts ever given in New York. A short time afterward, Mr. Stuart made a second essay in theatrical management. He leased and managed until it was burned, about 1867, the old Niblo's Winter Garden. Here he piloted the fortunes, among others, of Edwin Booth, who, under his management played Hamlet for what was then an unprecedented run of 100 nights. Afterward, in with his old partner, Mr. Boucicault, he built the new Park Theatre, which was burned some few years ago. After that Mr. Stuart devoted himself to journalism. * ** As an illustration of the wonderful scope of emotion possible to a pretty burlesque actress, I print the following actual note written by a young member of a very popular company to a man friend: DEAREST WILLIE : I am in awful trouble. Carrie and I have had a row. Won't you stop in on your way home, and I will tell you all about it. My heart is broken, just broken. Do come and see your unhappy Addie. P. S. By the way, can I have another case of beer for to-morrow? ADDIE. Did you ever encounter anything more näiveté? Trophonius. SOME POSTAL CARDS. MR. HERBERT KELCEY, Dear Sir Mustacheless thou art, and not so all-fired handsome as thou wert heretofore. Did the tonsorial artist sob over the sacrifice of the hirsute magnificence? Did the common broom boy of a barber shop sweep it ruthlessly into the corner dust heap? Ah, sir, say not so, say not so, unless you would distribute a green and yellow melancholy over skirtdom. MY DEAR MISS MATHER: In plain English, you are better to look at than you are to listen to. If the loveliness of your articulation were as solidly entrancing as the round rosiness of your two fine arms, why, Margaret, my fair one, you could embrace our fancies for a complete season at advanced prices. As it is, dear, you are loved, never fear, and I never yet encountered a four-sheet poster of yourself but my pulse galloped off at a ninety-nine clip. MY DEAR MISS DAUVRAY: I have been watching you, and have ceased all worry over your future. If Misfortune ever holds out her gaunt index finger at you, I'll wager that the grim old lady will not be able again to perform a Beethoven sonata that requires ten digits. You are a feminine theatrical Cæsar, and instead of throwing a bridge across the Rhine, you are boring a tunnel through the great woman question, and illustrating that beautiful proverb that I never heard before: a woman will if she wants to. But I wish you would arrange your hair differently. * ** MR. ROBERT DOWNING: Dear Sir: I like you. Don't gain a single pound, or you are lost. I'm not a patron of feather-weight tragedy, and I've seen translucent shapes draped in Roman togas with the effect of a lot of bed-clothes hung on a line in a high wind. But an obese gladiator wouldn't last a minute. 'Twould be a good idea to abjure beer. I don't believe that the real old Spartacus ever used it very freely. The compositor may have made a mistake, and handed the fighter's name down to us wrong. It may have been Sportycus. But I doubt it. To M. A. W. Dear Friend: If I might say that your bright hair shone lustrous as a golden star; that in your eyes so blue and rare the softest lights of Heaven are, I'd say it. If I could play the sad-voiced lute, and thought you'd hear its sobbing songs, on midnight air and winds acute, in spite of guns and chestnut gongs, I'd play it. Charles, the Wrestler. HERBERT'S PAINTING. (New York Commercial Advertiser.) It is reported in THE THEATRE of this week that a syndicate of Americans have purchased the original painting for Herbert's fresco in the British House of Lords, called Moses Coming from Mount Sinai with the Tables of the Law." The painting is about 20 feet by 11, and, as it is spoken of in the article as a probable "mine of wealth" to its owners, the syndicate in question has undoubtedly bought the picture for merely speculative purposes. DRAMATIC JOURNALISM. THERE is not a dramatic paper in America that can be called a property. Only one or two of them are decent livings. And it is because they do not merit any better success than this that they fail to have it. A weekly dramatic paper that can cover its field in the way it deserves, would obtain a circulation larger than the aggregate amount received at present by every theatrical publication in this country. Nearly all Americans love the theatre, and the predominating topic of conversation in every drawing-room in New York or any other big city is the drama. No other branch of art is so constantly discussed in all places. Drama and music are the prime legitimate delights of all nations of the highest civilization. I do not care what the dried-up crab of a man who looks at life through the crystalline lens of a torpid, liver says against my statement. It stands as a concentrated truth, and I wouldn't argue a minute over it. And this vast number of people who are so thoroughly interested in the theatre, constitute the field which a dramatic paper has to circulate in. If the aim is to reach the actors of plays only, how much of a success can a publication obtain? And that is the aim of the average dramatic paper. They cater entirely for the profession, and they do it so weakly and insincerely that it is quite impossible for one of them to become a power or a respectable mentor. They are really nothing more than reportorial collections of news items, of no value whatever except to the man who acts. And he doesn't care a snap about them unless his own name appears in their columns. Dramatic criticism is, or should be, the backbone of dramatic journalism. It should be a bony backbone, too, and not a soft, watch spring arrangement like a circus contortionist's. Let the people find out that a certain paper always tells the truth about a play, and tells this truth picturesquely, confidently, perspicuously, with never a fear of the superior sneer of those shell-backs, who believe they know it all simply because they have served time at the trade till their nerve centres have gone into their stomachs and died, and mark my words, that paper will be sought after by the theatre-goer. A handsome lie is valueless. A handsome truth is golden. The scarcity of any kind of truth in most of the dramatic criticism to which we are used is appalling. And when we do get the truth, it is as dry as a mouthful of flour. (Nothing but dramatic papers are included in any statements contained in this article.) There are writers who lie most beautifully. There are others who tell the truth in the same invigorating style that a codfish Baptist from the State of Maine says grace before meat. As an entertainer, I prefer the liar. But I would not become a steady subscriber to him. Now, I believe that even at this late day, it is possible to combine wise judgment, truth, and bright, elegant diction together, and thus have valuable dramatic criti-' cism. Besides the fact that most current criticism is untrustworthy, it usually exhibits so plainly the enormous egotism of its writer that it is very unpleasant to read. A grand tragedian who is acclaimed by the thousands, is set up and lectured as if he had just graduated from a Brooklyn amateur society. And do not believe that this self-constituted mentor is a reformer, a discoverer, a member of that blessed minority which is always in the right. He never reformed anything. He never discovered anything. He does not encourage worthy tyros. He simply attacks successful men. Well, this oblique way of seeing things destroys the value of a great deal of bright writing. And then when a well-meaning, dense fellow, who possesses a marked inability to put a good opinion into words, stuffs platitudes into bourgeois, you have got nothing that is pleasing, nothing that will sell. The fruit that a critic gives to his patrons must be both sound and rosy. It should possess a tang that can dispel all preconceived antipathy, and its consumption should be a delight to the mental digestion. If it is an untruth, it should be worn as a bustle. It would then receive its just fate, and be sat upon. I do not assert that there is a single writer on a dramatic paper in America who perpetrates a complimentary falsehood simply for fun. In the winter time, when coal is high and fur-lined overcoats are de rigueur, then does the merry "agent" flit hither and yon, smiling brightly, and jingling like a be-bangled fairy after a three weeks' visit in a college town. He tinkles here, and he tinkles there. Ads." to the right of him, "ads." to the left of him, and every "ad." a good, or at least, a subdued notice for his "egstrawn'ry" star. And there you have honesty buried forty feet deep. Well! Do you want to take out a year's subscription for that sort of work? So, you see, the cut and dried professional dramatic newspaper serves us with a black desert of anesthetizing truths, and a rippling barcarole of forecastle yarns, trimmed to suit the theatric emergency. It is an ungainly hodge-podge of depressing actualities, pink and white fairy tales, and very vulgar humor. And you will not find it in the library of a gentleman, or in my lady's boudoir. Nevertheless, it is the outcome of a great deal of study and experience on the parts of men more or less clever, who believe now that no other style of dramatic paper can receive patronage enough to live on. These men believe this because they have never tried any other style. C. M. THE GILBERT-SULLIVAN OPERA. At a time when the civilized world is on the tiptoe of expectation respecting the forthcoming opera at the Savoy Theatre, and society on both sides of the Atlantic is eagerly devouring the crumbs of gossip sparingly dropped by the paragraphic press, it may not be amiss, says the London Era, to consider the nature of the works which have made such a succession of successes. The analysis of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera is a task which must dismay the keenest critic. Nevertheless, the marvelous success of these entertainments is a "great fact," and is not to be disposed of by the "pooh-pooh" style of dealing with a difficult artistic conundrum. A clever doctor once said of the human stomach that it was not a chemical bath, nor a triturating mill, nor an absorbent agent, but that it was all these combined. In the Gilbert and Sullivan operas we have a union of the sensuous-artistic, the intellectually-satirical, and the melodiously musical elements which together constitute their attraction for the public. None of these can safely be subtracted from the general result without disadvantage to the receipts and the length of the "run." A series of pretty pictures is one of the sine qua nons of the success of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. Next in order of importance comes the music. This may seem a hard saying, but its truth is proved by the fact that some of the less successful of the series have had composed for them some of, if not the most delightful music of all the scores. The libretto is "the thing" in a Savoy opera; and this because it is always certain that Sir Arthur Sullivan will supply the most apt and delicious music to anything that Mr. Gilbert may write. With undeviating sympathy with the intentions of the librettist, the composer follows him through all his moods from a chorus full of volume and authority to a pretty little ballad redolent of the past, from a delicious melody like the love confession of the Queen of the Fairies in "Iolanthe," to the jigging incisiveness of a comic song for Mr. George Grossmith. So it is no slight to Sir Arthur, but rather a compliment to him, to say that on the book of a new Savoy opera its hopes of success principally rest. It is so difficult to say anything new about these works from a commonplace point of view, that perhaps some of our readers will excuse our taking a philosophical stand-point for the contemplation of Mr. Gilbert's librettos. Fortunately, we have a "historical parallel," of more or less applicability, ready to our hand. It is quite possible that in the times of Aristophanes, the Greek public saw nothing more in his plays than the vagaries of a libertine buffoon, 64 who was also a delightful poet. Looking back over the centuries, however, we can see that he was an anticipator of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera. What are the beautiful choruses in "Clouds," the broad buffoonery of the Lysistrata," but masks behind which, as behind the sweet strains of Sir Arthur Sullivan, the satirist humorously objects to the existing state of things? Greece was, in Aristophanes' time, in a kind of mild, amiable decline. The theorists were swamping the men of action, and the moral fibre of the country was gently degenerating. No period could be more favorable for a satirist who was also possessed of the literary refinement necessary to gild the pill of criticism. It is not quite correct, however, to claim either for Gilbert or Aristophanes a decidedly didactic or moral aim. The satirist is a sportsman who shoots at all game that rises; and, though Aristophanes clearly demonstrated his decided animosity to the "spirit of the age,' he revelled in the ridiculous with a recklessness born, perhaps, of hopelessness of any effort to stem the stream. In like manner, Mr. Gilbert's wit is very "will-o'-the-wisp-like." Trial By Jury" is, perhaps, the only opera with any attempt at complete unity of purpose. The susceptibility of juries in breach of promise cases, and the system of nepotism in legal promotion, of which an excessively glaring example now and then crops up into publicity, are ridiculed in this one-act operetta with exquisite wit and humor. The rising independence of subordinates, the self-importance of self-made men pitchforked into prominent positions, are satirised in "H. M. S. Pinafore.' But Aristophanes, however, would have hardly penned a parallel to His He is an Englishman!" sympathies were all the other way, and his Good Logos" would have rather encouraged the old-fashioned "bumptious" enthusiasm which has had an intimate connection with Marathon and Trafalgar. On the other hand, Aristophanes had the great advantage of the national religion, then giving way to skepticism, being satirisible in his day. Our civilization is not yet so far advanced as to permit the Book of Common Prayer to be "topsy-turvied," or to allow a "patter" song to be sung in public exposing the weak points in the First Book of Genesis, or the unreliability of certain portions of the Gospel of St. John. Aristophanes, on the contrary, was allowed to poke what fun he chose at gods and demi-gods, and to "chaff " Hercules as broadly as he ridiculed the sophistry of Socrates and the strong "marital instincts" of the Athenian ladies. The above passing remarks refer, of course, to the "great triology," the three P's "Pinafore," "Patience," and "Pirates of Penzance." Latterly, Mr. Gilbert's irony has been chastened and subdued — possibly by success. The libretto of "The Mikado" is simply a delicately fanciful story resembling very much one of those superior "books" which French dramatic authors of high degree occasionally pen for the composer. It is, indeed, a fortunate thing for those who are pedantic enough to enjoy accomplished versification that Mr. Gilbert publishes his librettos. It is the penalty of writing "words for music" that excellence of the expression in the verses chiefly serves to inspire the composer, and that the words, except in special" patter" ditties, are swamped by the notes. It is a great merit of Mr. Gilbert's librettos, as librettos go nowadays, that they will bear reading. An interesting question at present is what will the next be like? The American proverb says Never prophesy unless you know;" and in some cases, even if you do know, it is yet better not to prophesy. COQUELIN'S VOICE. IN the January Century, Henry James has a critical paper accompanied by a portrait of Coquelin, the French actor. "It may be said that M. Coquelin's voice betrays him; that he cannot get away from it, and that whatever he does with it one is always reminded that only he can do such things. His voice, in short, perpetually, loudly identifies him. Its life and force are such that the auditor sometimes feels as if it were running away with him — taking a holiday, performing antics and gyrations on its own account. The only reproach it would ever occur to me to make to the possessor of it is that he perhaps occasionally loses the idea while he listens to the sound. But such an organ may well beguile the ear even of him who has toiled to forge and polish it; it is impossible to imagine anything more directly formed for the stage where the prime necessity of every effort is that it shall tell.' When Coquelin speaks, the sound is not sweet and caressing, though it adapts itself beautifully, as I have hinted, to effects of gentleness and pathos; it has no analogy with the celebrated and delicious murmur of Delaunay, the enchanting cadences and semitones of that artist, also so accomplished, so perfect. It is not primarily the voice of a lover, or rather (for I hold that any actor such is the indulgence of the public to this particular sentiment - may be a lover with any voice) it is not primarily like that of M. Delaunay, the voice of love. There is no reason why it should have been, for the passion of love is not what M. Coquelin has usually had to represent. 66 ". . . If M. Coquelin's voice is not sweet, it is extraordinarily clear, firm, and ringing, and it has an unsurpassable distinctness, a peculiar power to carry. As I write I seem to hear it ascend like a rocket to the great hushed dome of the theatre of the Rue de Richelieu. It vibrates, it lashes the air, it seems to proceed from some mechanism still more scientific than the human throat. In the great cumulative tirades of the old comedy, the difficulties of which are pure sport for M. Coquelin, it flings down the words, the verses, as a gamester precipitated by a run of luck flings louis d'or upon the table. I am not sure that the most perfect piece of acting that I have seen him achieve is not a prose character, but it is certain that to appreciate to the full what is most masterly in his form one must listen to enjoy his delivery of verse. That firmness touched with hardness, that easy confidence which is only the product of the most determined study, shine forth in proportion as the problem becomes complicated. It does not, indeed, as a general thing, become so psychologically in the old rhymed parts; but in these parts the question of elocution, of diction, or even simply the question of breath, bristles both with opportunities and with dangers. Perhaps it would be most exact to say that wherever M. Coquelin has a very long and composite speech to utter, be it verse or prose, there one gets the cream of his talent." MR. WILLIAM SCHAUS, the art dealer, has sent out cards of invitation to an art view, during the past week, which will be a memorable occasion in the history of art in this country. It was the exhibition for the first time of a possession not to be valued by monetary figures, namely, the celebrated Portrait of a Man,' called "Le Doreur," (The Gilder) by Rembrandt, which Mr. Schaus purchased from the Duc de Morny, in 1884, for, it is said, some 210,000 francs. * ** EARLY in the century it formed a part of the Collection Van Helslenter," and was sold, in 1802, for 5,005 francs. In 1854, at the sale of Mme. Gentil de Chavagnac, it reached the sum of 25,000 francs, having been bought by the Duc de Morny. After his death it was sold, May, 1865, to his widow (afterward the Duchess de Sesto) for 155,000 francs. From her son, the present Duc de Morny, Mr. Schaus bought it for 210,000 francs. ** ** IN Smith's celebrated “Catalogue raisonné," (1836) the work is thus described under the number 334: "Portrait of a man, styled Le Doreur de Rembrandt, a person about forty-five years of age, with the face seen in a |