IN AND OUT OF THE LIMELIGHT'S GLARE.

UNLESS we are one of those rare wretches that play constantly against hard, horrid luck, this life is just as pleasant as we choose to make it. That is not a smart proverb, but just a little idea of mine that I'm trying to believe in. I live, and therefore circulate here, there, and back again. I go around like a butterfly that has sent his wings into the wingery to have the frames freshly covered. Like a bird (there are jay-birds, as well as bobolinks and erythaca rubecula) do I rise early- from the fearful and complete destruction of a deviled crab or the fragmentary embers of a feast made desolate by acquaintances who eat with force, fury and eclat. New York is a fine aviary for a bird to flutter about in. When your wings get weary you can jump on to an elevated train, and if you lose your bill, the tailor will send in a duplicate without a single regret. They say that the expense of being a New York bird is much and large. I believe that. But I like it, don't you? It costs lots, but I would rather pay $4.75 for a perfect peach than half a dime for having a tooth extracted. Everything that we get in this town is ripe and painless, that is, you understand, if you only possess the wherewithal with which to purchase the painless ripeness, and know where it grows. This is not mere flippancy that I speak, though I shall now seem less serious by telling you, right over my own name, like the little man that I'm bound I'll be just for once, that I hate money myself. I mean that I hate the idea of having to have it, and believe that the lack of it, the having of it, and the fight to secure it is the pendulum of love, hate, envy and crime. With the wealth of a Monte Cristo the world is indeed mine-including New York. And I long for the millenium. By that I mean the time when the rose leaves of verbal kindness will pay for a dinner at Delmonico's, when the heliotropistic perfume of a generous self-sacrifice will reward the genial treasurer at the box-office for twin seats on the centre aisle. This is not for personal gratification at all, except that the world would be made a more smiling one to my eyes that now are tired with seeing sorrowful, dejected countenances that meet them on every turn and street car.

By the way, now that I have got a-going, I might say that New York teaches us something every night that we live. The several nights that I have lived have taught we that in this city, and in clothes and accoutrements that are very perfect, there is a horde of youths who are utterly worthless. They are fellows who drink, but don't know why, who gamble with

out nerve, who refuse to talk their native tongue, who know not modesty, have no talents, and thrown on their own resources would starve to death. The well-known eccentrics who have gained extraordinary fame by achieving the distinction of being regular royal dudes, are not the ones that I refer to. They, in fact, have something to entitle them to observation and remark. But it is the unused, clogging dudelingette who never said or thought anything half so graceful as a pretzel, that sets the anger a-boiling in me as he loafs life's journey through, with not an ambition beyond his governor's check book, or a passion nobler than the purchase of a homely chorus girl. You can see him at Wallack's on a first night, up for an evening with Rosina Vokes, in at Delmonico's café a little after midnight, and at none of these places has he an excuse for being. He has got a face that I believe would warrant anyone in suing him for damages. I can stand anything that has any individuality. A swell like Weedon Grossmith shows us has my hearty appreciation. But the other is all different. He's nothing, that's what he is, and I'm sorry I have wasted so much of my time and your's in talking about him.

THIS piece, "Pippins," that Nathaniel C. Goodwin intends to give us, is the first thing that he ever starred in. It is only fair. It is about twelve times as good as "Turned Up." That is the most worthless balderdash ever presented in a respectable New York theatre.

**

I HAD occasion recently to write a business letter to Minnie Maddern, and I caught her out in East Saginaw, Michigan. Now that's a pretty neighborhood for an actress like her to be wading about in, isn't it? One of the tenderest things that ever made a man's heart bleed is the voice of Minnie Maddern as it sings "The Day when You'll Forget Me." After hearing that, any one will say that what she deserves is a plush-lined play house, pale-tinted and soft enough to make a mortal feel when he is in it like a pink cherub on a ten thousand dollar tapestry. That is what some man like J. M. Hill ought to give Minnie.

a wild beast on a distant mountain. And is that lonely, dejected figure a poor, overworked chorus girl, hesitating whether to ride home to Harlem, or walk and save her money to buy figs for her poor invalid brother? Well, it isn't. It is no lady actress." It is the residuum that a lady actress has permitted to grope its way home after a forty-dollar supper. It is the man who settled for the supper. The chorus girl has the supper. His capelets has escaped with a car fare. There's a fearful sight of misery in Gotham.

"TAMING OF THE SHREW."

MR. EDWIN BOOTH has made Garrick's version of Shakespeare's comedy, "Taming of the Shrew," familiar to the American public under the title of "Katherine and Petruchio," and this gentleman of Verona is best understood and played by him. Mr. Augustin Daly has, however, marked the most important event in his theatrical career, it seems to me, by a complete representation of the comedy with its Induction. As Mr. Booth has always presented it the piece was robbed of its value as one of the most ingenious and witty of Shakespeare's writings-serving its purpose only as a second play on the evening bill, which partook more of the nature of a roaring farce.

Mr. Daly has offered us a novelty. I do not hesitate to say that not one person out of fifty of the theatre-going public has read “Taming of the Shrew." People do not read Shakespeare nowadays, and in New York especially the young generation are excessively ignorant regarding even the stories of his plays. It would seem, then, that from the treasures

which can thus be selected without paying royalties, or smoothing things over with the author, the manager like Mr. Daly ought to reap a continual harvest. Nothing could be more sumptuous than the manner in which he has set "Taming of the Shrew." A very large amount of money has evidently been expended in the stage paraphernalia, and the costumes are simply superb. The final scene, the Banquet Hall in Lucentio's House, is unfolded to the audience like a magnificent painting. The grouping of the company about the tables, the arrangement of color, and the choir which lends an atmosphere to the picture of Tadema, make the most artistic thing of the kind I have ever seen on the stage. It should be painted and engraved to Mr. Daly's credit, of whom too much cannot be said in praise for the value which this production ought to be to the student.

As an interesting curiosity I can see the purpose of performing the Induction, but as it furnishes no exploitation of the comedy, or is sequenced by a deduction, I think it a needless addition and one which is somewhat perplexing. On the opening of the comedy, the presence of the people in this introductory act as an audience rather destroys the effect by the singular fictitiousness of the whole instead of apparent reality, which a play within a play (like the performance in "Hamlet") is sure to give. However, this objection is all dispelled as the comedy progresses.

Mr.

Mr. Daly's company appeared naturally familiar personages. Petrucio was a rollicking John Drew, and Grumio was an excellent James Lewis, and so on, and so on, and perhaps this familiarity detracted somewhat from the study of the play. This is said without the spirit of criticism. Our acting friends usually do lend a certain unrealness, simply because we see the two characters at once, and the performance of one seldom receives its due credit. On the other hand, friendship covers a multitude of sins. In the present instance the company were remarkably effective. George Clarke was added to it for the occasion and appeared as A Lord in the Induction. It seemed a pity that both he and William Gilbert were seen no more during the evening. Mr. Fisher as Baptista, should stand as a model for a painter. Mr. Drew does not lend to Petrucio that dash, sparkle, and brilliancy in which I think Mr. Booth is particularly successful, but he plays it well. Miss Rehan is a picturesque Katherine but gives it such delicate femininity as to render it not one-half the hyenic creature Kate is popularly imagined. Miss Rehan's success was found in her intellectual efforts. She looked regal in dress and beauty. But every one of the company was excellent, and the

The McCaul Opera Company opened the week at the Star Theatre in Audran's comic opera of "Indiana," the libretto of which is by H. B. Farnie. It is fairly interesting, contains some funny situations which are made the most of by Digby Bell, and the music, while not especially entrancing, contains some very bright numbers and much dreamy waltz movement. The opera furnishes a star part for Digby Bell, and this he shows to be appreciated. At times he is exceedingly comical. Miss Post appears to great advantage, and Mrs. Laura Joyce Bell, while not having much opportunity with her voice, acts with her usual grace and apparent enjoyment. Miss Annie Meyers is a new comer and a very good soubrette. Messrs. Olmi, Hoff and Ryce do not have Mr. Bell's opportunities but do their little -well.

MISS HELEN HASTINGS.

THE first appearance in America of the young English actress, Miss Helen Hastings, was effected under most inauspicious circumstances at the Union Square Theatre last Monday evening. The pretty ittle actress was not given a fair show. For she has a very goodly amount of natural ability, a winning smile, and large and beautiful eyes. She did the best she could with an inane production which the bill called "A New Comedy, entitled Pen and Ink." But there was precious little comedy about the thing. "A Novice's Attempt at a Farce" would better define it. The modest author's name did not appear upon the programme.

Miss Hastings played Phyllis, a wayward orphan, who does not live happily with her foster parents at Irvington, and so runs away with a Mr. Aristarchus Brent (Mr. Eugene Jepson), to start a paper in New York city. In the second act she is seen disguised as a youth, assistant editor in the office of "Moonshine," the new paper. An attempt at a hit was made by having the editor and his assistant write all their original "copy" by diving among the exchanges and vigorously plying the shears, but it fell flat.

As we have said, Miss Hastings showed herself worthy of a much better piece, she was rather poor in boy's garb, her movements were not always graceful, and her pronunciation was tainted with the Cockney flavor, but she did several natural pieces of acting, and her comedy was genuine. We hope that when she is seen in New York again it will be to better advantage,

Mr. Henry D. Walton made something of a hit with the rôle of a weak-headed Englishman, Captain Mountstewart, but the part was too slightly drawn by the author to give him much basis to work upon. A man can't make a character out of a part who has nothing to say but Oah I sahay Miss A-da, don't chaff a fellow," all through the play.

Mr. Jepson dealt conscientiously with the wordy part of Aristarchus Brent. The rest of the cast was poor.

Miss Hastings' engagement is for two weeks.

Mrs Effingham, a young widow.....Mrs. Charles Dennison Mrs. Marabout, her intimate enemy...... Miss Lucie Coffey Mrs. Coddington, a managing mamma,

Miss Laura Sedgwick Collins Arabella Coddington, a girl who has nothing to say, Miss Alice Lawrence Arthur Rutledge, an innocent offender......Howard Martin Walter, a social cynic. Alfred Young Grayson, a tender-and-true young man Valentine G. Hall (Of the Amateur Comedy Club.) Appleby, a can't-get-it-out young man.... E. F. Coward Sabretache, a thunder-and-mars young man,

Henry Gallup Paine Dr. Grantley, a professional button-holer. Courtenay Thorpe Thomas, a confidential footman........ Charles T. Thomas SCENE Mrs. Effingham's drawing-room in New York.

As will be seen by this, the entertainment was assisted by three professional people: Courtenay Thorpe, Walden Ramsay, and Mrs. Dennison, the last named once belonging to the Madison Square Theatre Company under the name of Mathilde Madison. It is only fair to say, however, in every instance the "Amateurs were decidedly professional in their conduct, and this will be acknowledged by many old actors present if prejudice does not overcome reason. Mr. Coward distinguished himself by remarkable versatility and ease, and as the American stage needs an intellectual advancement among its young men it would be a very good thing to have the addition of just such men as Mr. Coward. Miss DeWolfe showed that she is a far better actress in comedy than she is in serious work, and in the Mouse Trap" the two players did quite as well as the average professional would do. In “Weeping Wives" Mr. Coward had to contend with Mr. Ramsey's experience in the exhibition of stage ease, but very little to his disadvantage. Mrs. Teall and Miss Lawrence played with grace and could be heard very distinctly without much elevation of the voice. The one-act comedy of "Tea at Four O'clock" was quite brilliantly given. The French original of this is "Les lundis de Madame." by M. Samson, and was played more than thirty years ago at the Comédie Française, where it made a great success as a skillful and enjoyable hit on “society.” It serves the same purpose very well now. The English adapta

tion is by Mrs. Burton Harrison. The disposition of the characters was admirable, Mr. Coward and Mr. Paine being particularly excellent. Mr. Thorpe's make-up and acting was a very fine bit of work. The women were all good. Mrs. Dennison, who is a very beautiful woman, acted with much spirit and cleverness in both this piece and the monologue.

PHILADELPHIA NOTES.

JAN. 19.-The first performance in this city of "Lorraine," the new opera by Rudolph Dellinger, completely filled McCaull's Opera House, Monday night. As the familiar faces of the company beamed on the audience they were enthusiastically greeted, but when the newcomer, Miss Griswold, made her appearance she received a perfect ovation. She possesses a remarkably sweet voice, which with her pretty face and naïve method easily won a warm place in the hearts of the audience. The opera has been even more magnificently mounted than any of Colonel McCaull's previous productions, and merits success.

Mrs. Langtry, in "A Wife's Peril," was again seen at the Walnut Street Theatre last

night, supported by an exceptionally strong company. As for Mrs. Langtry, herself, the general impression seems to be that her acting is marked with considerable improvement since she was last seen in this city.

At the Arch Street Theatre, Salsbury's Troubadours presented their new play," The Humming Bird." Nate Salsbury and Nellie McHenry are old favorites, and their appearance last night drew a large audience, who thoroughly enjoyed the amusing situations and humorous characterizations of the new play. J.

THE CRITICS AT THE PLAY.

ON any first night at Daly's or Wallack's or the Star you are pretty certain to see in the front orchestra chairs William Winter, of the Tribune; John Harrington, of the Sunday Dispatch; Andrew C. Wheeler, of the World and Mirror; Stephen Fiske, of the Spirit of the Times; Joseph Howard, Jr., of the World-the Old Guard of the dramatic criticdom of New York.

Winter, tall, slight, stooping, with a fine head and disheveled hair, dreamy eyes, a melancholy expression, has been on the Tribune about twenty years. He hails from Gloucester, Mass., was educated in Boston, studied law at Harvard, wrote poems, sketches, squibs at the Hub and in Gotham, called himself Mercutio," contributed among other papers, to Vanity Fair, lounged at the clubs, chummed with actors and actresses. Today he lives at New Brighton, Staten Island, and comes to town as little as possible. He has published a life of Edwin Booth, of the Jeffersons, of Mary Anderson. There are several volumes of his poems and his travels on the market. He has collected his criticisms on Henry Irving, and Coombes has published them in his best style. Winter is a littérateur, writing dramatic critiques, rather than a newspaper man. His articles never seem to have been struck off on the spur of the moment, in the press room of a theatre or amid the clink and clatter of a bar-room. He writes with care and aforethought. He turns continu ally to authorities, precedents, old play-bills, old papers, old books. He is as florid as was Gautier when he wrote of Victor Hugo, as rich in superlatives as was Macaulay when he wrote of Milton. Edwin Booth and John McCullough, Adelaide Neilson and Mary Anderson, Joe Jefferson and Lawrence Barrett are his friends and his idols. Though emotional and hyperbolical, Winter is brilliant. He is so brilliant, in fact, that when I read him I feel like doing what Lamartine said he did when reading Paul de Saint Victor-I put on blue glasses.

Andrew C. Wheeler, who signs "Nym Crinkle," can be seen at every first night and every day, at eleven, at the Union Square Hotel. He is tall, slight, slouchy, with a colorless face, protruding eyes, and he puffs incessantly, from under a short mustache, dense whiffs of cigarette smoke. Since his boyhood days New York has been his home,

and he knows the town thoroughly from "coulisse to curb," from the Battery to High Bridge. As a young man he learned drawing and painting; did odd jobs in that line; did reporting; knocked about generally; was often as low in funds as any of the gentlemen immortalized by Henri M. Wiger. The weekly, Nym Crinkle, was short-lived The lecture, Skylarks and Daisies," was a success. His writing has been done principally for the Sun, the Star, the World. Now Wheeler has a feuilleton every week in the Mirror. His literary method is apparently simple. He never draws up a mere bill of lading of facts. There is always an epigram, a witticism, a sally, an alliteration interspersed in the text or thrown into the margin. Wheeler, feuilletonist above all, is unconventional, autobiographic, helter skelter. He is gifted with a wonderful lightness of touch and a perennial freshness of phrase. While Winter excels in dithyrambic eulogy. Wheeler is an adept in genteel vituperation. While Winter has his loves, Wheeler has his hates. They say all kinds of disagreeable things about him. They say he writes paid puffs for actors and actresses. They say he smokes opium to get his inspiration. They say he is unreliable. And yet, I think that if Sarah Bernhardt knew him, she would have written on the photograph of herself she presented to him the compliment she once wrote on the one she gave De Blowitz: "Au plus fin d'ésprit, la plus fine de corps."

If Andrew Wheeler is the epigrammatic feuilletonist of Gotham, handsome, white-haired, sixfooter, John Harrington is its anecdotic feuille tonist. His column and a half in the Sunday Dispatch, signed "John Carboy," has, for the last thirty years, abounded in souvenirs, yarns, gossip. Harrington, born in Columbus, Ohio, was an actor once upon a time, has written blood-curdling romances, has been guilty of verse. He writes just as he would talk in the lobby during an intermission, in a chop house over a rarebit and a mug of ale He does not affect a literary style. Like many old critics, he sees little good in the present, looks most longingly, talks most lovingly upon the past. Ah, my dear fellow," he seems to say to you, "the play last night was good, but not so good as what we had in Forrest's time. Actors don't seem to have the gift of rising to a climax, as they used to do. You ought to have heard Mrs Siddons say 'Remember twelve! when she played Belvidera! You ought to have heard old man Booth say, 'Well, as you guess?' when he played Richard! Where's the woman to day who could exclaim Je crois !' as Rachel did? Where's your tragedienne who could say Give me the daggers!' the way Cushman did?" Harrington is as good at speaking of the stage matters of bygone days as is Steve Massett. or Howard Paul, or Commodore Tooker, or Charles Collier. The past is. indeed, a fruitful theme What memories cluster about the names of some of those old-time critics and feuilletonists of Gotham! What r collections are awakened by the mention of John Howard Payne, of the Thespian Mirror; of Irving and Paulding, of Salmagundi; of Nathaniel Parker

Willis, of the Mirror and the Home Journal! There is Cornelius Mathews, of the Prompter and Arcturus; and Henry Clapp, Jr., of The Leader: and Grant White, of the Courier and Enquirer and the Times. There is Donald G. Mitchell, of The Lorgnette; and Adam Badeau, of The Vagabond. I make no detailed n ention of Fry, of Tappan, of Augustin Daly, of Bronson Howard, of J. J. White, of William Stuart. I can omit a lengthy account of George William Curtis, formerly musical critic of the Tribune, now the genial feuilletonist of Harper's. I confine myself to those who to-day drive their critical quills over yellow pads at eleven, twelve o'clock at night, and in print give you their opinion on play and opera at your breakfast table in the morning.

Stephen Fiske, shortish, stoutish, with a sturdy, bearded face, eyes that he twists into a kind of a squint when he talks to you, does his dramatic work for the Spirit of the Times in the card-room of the Lotos Club. He was born in New Brunswick, N. J.. and educated at Rutgers. Connected with the Herald for years in a reportorial capacity, and as special correspondent, he was in 1862 called from the seat of war in Maryland to succeed Ned Wilkins as dramatic critic. Fiske managed Booth when that player did Hamlet one hundred nights at the Winter Garden; incurred the enmity of Forrest because he said the tragedian had piano legs; and within three days, by the severity of his criticisms on a play, shut up the Broadway Theatre. Fiske sailed for England the first time twenty years ago; wrote up the Henrietta yacht race; established the Hornet in London, and managed the St. James Theatre and the Royal Opera Company. On his return to New York he ran the Fifth Avenue Theatre, under Daly, and was the first man to introduce Modjeska and Anderson to metropolitan audiences. Two books of his, "* English Photographs and 'Off-Hand Portraits of Prominent New Yorkers," have had a big run. In the Spirit of the Times Stephen Fiske is a most acute, crisp and trenchant critic. Though he puts a sub acid flavor into all he writes, he evidently strives to do the right thing by managers, players and payers. He advises the former, and voices the opinions of the latter. He feels for all three, for he has himself been a manager, a spectator, and ever a friend of actors Do you remember his articles in Freund's Music and Drama, signed "Seraph?' They were specimens of his best work. One of the most notable traits in Fiske is the kindly way he notices the meritorious little people of a cast. One of the most striking characteristics of the man is the pithy way he expresses himself when he converses on criticism Stephen Fiske speaks as epigrammatically as Nym Crinkle writes. Many of his savings are as concise as a promissory note, and infinitely more amusing.

Joseph Howard, Jr, the first-night representative of the World, is a slight, wiry man of good height, bustling ways, breezy, cheery manners. He looks like a veteran officer of France in civilian dress. His hair-what there is of it-is white and close-cropped. He has an imperial mustache