and the pair are entombed for three months. Eventually, it is discovered that Nordisa and Minna have been changed as babies, so that each is at full liberty to pair off with the gentleman of her choice. The opera depends a great deal upon the music, which contains a rustic ballet, in which Scandinavian dance forms are freely used, several melodious songs, an impassioned love duet in the snow-bound hut, and in the last act some pretty wedding music.

**

44

A WRITER in Harper's Weekly tells the following: The choir of a certain orthodox" church in New England once sang Mendelssohn's "I Waited for the Lord," giving it with four voices only, as they had no chorus. The start was a good one, and everything was going on with a swing and a boom, when suddenly the bass failed to come in on a solo passage when he was positively due. The organist played for a full bar and then turned and hissed: "What's the matter with you ?" Then, just as everybody was wondering why the bass was behind time, the singer suddenly found his voice, and burst out in really stentorian tones, "I waited for the Lord." The people smiled, and after the piece was finished the organist sought the singer and said, Mr. A—, your excuse was quite satisfactory."

You seem to be conversant with every work of all the prominent authors," remarked the editor of the Buffalo Express to a young society woman. "If you won't give it away I'll put you on," rejoined the Social Success, drawing the reporter into a corner and producing a "Seaside Catalogue" from her pocket: "Now name any author you find marked." The reporter selected Black, when the S. S. rattled off like a school-boy Princess of Thule," "Daughter of Heth," "Madcap Violet," "Yolande," "Judith Shakespeare," "Macleod of Dare," etc. It was just the same with most of the other leading authors. "And don't you ever get beyond the titles?" inquired the reporter. Not myself; they'd all rather give their opinion of a book than hear one, and when I get in a tight place I just switch off upon another author or title. It took some time to learn what I wanted to know of the list so as not to mix it up, but it's a heap sight easier than reading them all, and answers well enough for any ordinary literary conversation. But don't give it away or you'll spoil the scheme."

**

IT seems to me that men like Augustin Daly and A. M. Palmer make a mistake in lending their name in any way to a secondclass traveling company. They have made a

national reputation, and any theatrical entertainment which is likely to deceive people not conversant with such matters into the belief that it is "Daly's Company" or Mr. Palmer's Company," injure themselves to a greater extent than the rental of one of their successful plays will bring them profit when their names are used in a manner to mislead. I was particularly struck with this while in Columbus, Ohio, one day last week. There was heavily billed there an attraction advertised conspicuously by two large lines: "AUGUSTIN DALY'S great success-A NIGHT OFF!” On close inspection I discovered that it was really “O. B. Sheppard's Star Society Comedy Company," announced as having the authority for playing Mr. Daly's great success. There was nothing positively wrong in Mr. Sheppard's methods perhaps, but when a resident of the city said to me, "I shall certainly go to see Augustin Daly's company next week," I was disposed to set him aright. Now the people advertised as members of this company were obscure.

If they bring custom because of the name of Daly, what will be the result?

**

ONE is always inclined to think that what he knows well everyone else ought to know. Outside of New York very little is known about the personnel of the stage. Five hundred miles away from it and you will find that the names of Kyrle Bellew, Herbert Kelsey, John Drew, or J. H. Stoddart are not quickly recognized in conversation. There is, of course, a large class, mostly young people, who remember these names by frequent reading of theatrical items, or because they have been impressed upon them during a visit to New York; but the majority of people of middle age, who go to the theatre occasionally to see a good play, rarely remember the names of the company a day afterward. The name of the

theatre itself is the chronicle.

DURING a flying trip West it gave me pleasure to note the general satisfaction which the Held by the Enemy" company and play gave everywhere. It is the same organization throughout which produced it at the Madison Square Theatre. I am impressed with the fact that this is one of the most successful American plays ever written. It has been handled so far with skill and care, the company is so well chosen and its atmosphere is so refined, that the author of the piece, Mr. Gillette, ought to be in an exuberant state of mind. He is an Ohio man, and this is a great thing nowadays, although I doubt if Judge Foraker will ever be President.

Trophonius.

ART CHAT.

THE WATER COLOR EXHIBITION.

II.

THE South Gallery at the Academy of Design is the only room in which the pictures can be seen properly. The corridor and the other three galleries are too narrow to allow a person to stand off a sufficient distance to see the pictures hung above those on the line. Whenever there is a crowd in the Academy one is accustomed to evade or pass quickly through the East. West and North rooms, and loiter only in the large South Gallery. It is here, too, that the Hanging Committee take most pains in arranging the walls harmoniously, and where they place the choicest fruits of the accepted works.

*

**

LET us enter it. This year the place of honor, a position in the middle of the south wall opposite the entrance of the corridor, is held by Mr. J. Alden Weir's "Consolation" (335). A mother and child are seated in a dimly-lighted room, the mother, sad in face, resting her head upon her left hand. A letter (supposed to be a letter because an envelope is on the floor, but drawn much more like a book) lies opened on her lap. The little child, who sits on a low stool near, but not very close to her, is reading (aloud to her?) a book. Exactly where the "consolation" comes in is not to me very apparent--whether it is merely the child, or what the child is reading to her. The work is full of inartistic blacks, and the woman is anything but beautiful, but the natural pose of the child is beyond all criticism, and the drawing throughout the work is masterly. The coloring, aside from its blackness, is perfectly refined, and an earnestness pervades the work which deserves our acknowledgment. On the opposite side of the room hangs a large "Portrait" (431) of, evidently, the same child that we see in Consolation." It is the best portrait in the display, and is to me more

attractive than the more important composition.

The second place of honor, at the east end of the gallery, is occupied by Mr. F. S. Church s "Desolation" (285). Two polar bears on a field of ice; one of them has been mortaily wounded, and lies prostrate, with the blood flowing from its side, and its mate bewails its loss with open mouth, its breath visible in the frosty air. The picture is in a way one of Mr. Church's most telling efforts. His other two contributions hard by are rather poor.

THE South Gallery is not lacking in variety. We note more than a few of W. Hamilton Gibson's delightful landscapes, more like colored drawing than water-color paintings, but mirroring nature always. Chas. Melville Dewey, also J. Francis Murphy, signs excellent work. Geo H. Smillie's best contribution out of five is his roadway, entitled "Evening" (356), in which the feeling of distance and aerial perspective is superbly indicated. Carlton Wiggins has seldom signed his name to a finer piece of color than his "Barnyard Fowls' (389). Chas. C. Curran, in several very small pictures, managed to crowd in a great deal of nature; the composition in No. 257, "A Dusty Road,' is particularly attractive. Some slight sea-beach sketches by Albert E. Sterner, a talented young illustrator, give promise of brilliant work in the future. D. W. Tryon's poetic "Morning" (322) is a rare treasure. H. W. Ranger has given us in No. 401, "Sunset and Snow," here in the South room, and No. 64. "Early Morning at Gansevoort Market," in the North Gallery, two very acceptable, distinctively American pictures. Carlton Chapman's "Dutch Fishing Boats" (303) is an effective marine.

J. G. Brown, who is often absent entirely from the water-color displays, and who seldom is represented by more than one production, sends his unique piece this year in the form of a bootblack who "Wants to Shine" (306). The drawing is not particularly firm, nor has the color much depth to it, but it has the good quality of purity to recommend it. The same criticism may be applied to Jas. Symington's interior, with two girls, one seated at a writingdesk, the other standing and spinning.

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IN oils, few young artists can excel, in technical qualities, Irving R. Wiles. He has served a thorough apprenticeship to art. But in water colors Mr. Wiles is more apt to rely upon chic than upon honest labor in getting his effects. Seriously, Mr. Wiles, do you wish us to admire the girl you have placed in your sketch, entitled A Corner in the Studio" (430)? Is not her nose too long, her lips

vulgarly red, the color on her breast unreal? You draw with perfect ease and freedom, you have shown in many oils that you can have a good eye for color, pray do more serious and attractive work in the future. Why not try to make something truly beautiful?

Now, if Mr. Wiles is to be chided for his carelessness, what rebuke should be administered to Mr. Robert Blum for his insane conceits which he displays as water colors. I have seen many an infantine essay lying about the nursery which would eclipse Mr. Blum's production (valued, by the way, at $200!) called "Waiting" (435). Think of the artist of this nonsense being also the author of that exquisite full-page illustration to Part of an Old Story," in this month's Century! His sketch in the East Gallery of a Dutch girl, “A Costume Study" (199), is interesting because there is very little color in it; it relies for its effect upon its drawing, and Mr. Blum is a consummate draughtsman.

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I HAVE very little more space to spare. Let us be content with the mention of a few of the larger works. There is F. Hopkinson Smith's city park during A January Thaw" (336); "Á Cradle Song" (348), the best production Mr. A. M. Turner has ever sent to a watercolor exhibition; "Horse Artillery Going Into Action" (299), a graphic but rather harsh colored drawing by T. de Thulstrup; "Amphitrite and Her Shell Fleet" (330), is an inartistic composition by Alfred Fredericks; Cobble

stone Beach, Magnolia, Mass.' (347), is a good marine study by F. K. M. Rehn; Harry Fenn's "Green Mosque, Damascas" (355), is only fair in parts; Miss Kathleen H. Greatorex's large work, "Russian Tea" (384), is an excellent piece of technicality. Rhoda Holmes Nicholls'

The Scarlet Letter” (396), is as an illustration to that masterpiece of romance utterly worthless; as a water-color study of a village street it is very clever. Mr. John Jacob Astor loans a very crude water-color study by Meissonnier (443), which is wonderfully firm in drawing. Thos. Moran's "Grand Canal, Venice (448), and C. Harry Eaton's "The Pond" (419) are to be noticed.

THE exhibition closes on the 26th inst., and as the indications now point the sales will be equal to previous years. The West Gallery, as usual, contains the display of the New York Etching Club. Ernest Knaufft.

IN THE LIMELIGHT'S GLARE. DEAR LYMAN: I am going to have my work for THE THEATRE done by proxy this week. You are going to do it. I believe your method in writing is to place a large unwieldly adjective in the middle of a page and then to construct an essay around it. That's not original with you, but you may be more successful at it than some of the better known press fellows. Judging from your personal appearance and your skill in fascinating those who come within range of your large voice, I should imagine that any output of your pen would be as inspiring as sparks flying from the rear end of an engine as it goes to a night fire in the dry goods district. Turn on the limelight, Lyman. Yours faithfully,

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C. M. S. McLellan.

DEAR CHARLES: I can't promise you much picturesque material as I am short in cerebral pigment this week, and, moreover, never was a heavyweight in recriminatory jottings, as you know, but you shall have a little letter. Don't use it for your "Limelight's Glare," I beg of you, without redressing it with that facile stub of yours that knows so well how to wed the delicate redolence of mignonette and the sandalwood odor of beef-soup into a brilliant feuilleton; for I fear the trend of my present thoughts will superinduce hypnotism. Yes, as you insist on an "unwieldly adjective," let it be "hypnotic "; and now to construct around it.

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It

I WILL tell you of a handsome gown that I saw last week in Philadelphia. It was of Robin's-egg blue, with a trailing robe of electric blue plush, elaborately embroidered in bullion. Lawrence Barrett-for who but he wears such gowns-values it at $1,000. was completely studded with aqua-marine stones and brilliants, and was girt in at the waist with a kirtle of jewels-a marvelous gown. I had seen it at the costumer's the week before, as it was finished, and so it was particularly interesting at this time. It was simply loaded with jewels of all colors. But the way Barrett handled it was an inspiration. Standing on the cathedral steps in a scene in "Rienzi," with a laurel wreath of gold on his head, an exquisite staff surmounted with a

Roman eagle in his left hand, and two yards of cerulean loveliness falling at his feet, beautiful shoes and a tyrant's scorn-and there, in truth, stood Cola di Rienzi, the last of the Tribunes, in all his pomp and magnificence and power. Power, for he held a mortgage on the Church of Rome. And to what base purposes he turned it history records. And but a short time before he was a Henry George-possessed of the greatest sympathy for the lowly, and with a wonderful capacity for expressing it and working out their redemption. We can only hope that Henry George will not prove a Rienzi, who after freeing his race, works its destruction.

As soon as the procession of choir boys had done their melodious work and filed out, Barrett gathered up his robe and gracefully draped it on his left arm.

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ONE young actor of the troupe has been considerably talked of on account of his elaborate expenditure in costumes; but he must not stand at the wings and laugh that high, metallic set laugh that is so unpleasant unless he feels confident that his "voice is quite deep" that night. It proved quite as annoying to me as Herr Schott's singing out of tune at the Metropolitan a few nights before.

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I LEARN that Booth's engagement this season is the most wonderful ever known in the history of the drama in this country.

**

as

IRVING BISHOP's entertainment was threadbare on the shoulders with the pats of European scions of nobility; and his high and mighty talk-as Mr. Beecher would say—was studded with I's as a boiled ham is stuck full of cloves. But he owned me as soon as his intangible work began; for, whether by blind following of muscular impulses given by his subject, or whether by mind reading, he got there. Once, as Bishop sailed past me with a man of double his own avoirdupois, looking like the Assyrian monarch and a tug-boat, I felt the charmed current that Bishop follows in the air, connect, and in the divine intoxication of my brain I felt that I was about to dip o er the brim of Life's beaker the subtile thoughts and occult things born of hypnotism (I must not leave my adjective so long again), when my companions said: "Two blind mice, see how they run "-and both were blindfolded and running. Some one at my left corrected this and said it was three blind mice, and I couldn't resist, and said: "You are both wrong; they are not mice, but mysogenists." And the charm was broken, and I lost another opportunity to dip.

AS ANYTHING occult interests to-day, I will briefly touch a foot-note I read in Haggard's story, "She." It states that nearly all our deep love for women, who are not our kindred, depends upon their personal charms; and that that is a terrifying reflection. For if we lost them and found them again dreadful to look upon, should we still love them? Certainly not. Who was there that did or could love Henry Hyde? Love Dr. Jeckyl, yes; but ah! was Jeckyl lost, annihilated, swallowed up in Hyde? And so the man that caters to his evil passions is hardening the lineaments of his face and destroying his better self. The interior and durable form is being hourly discharged— so that the eye is always the index of the soul. If we would be loved we must be lovable.

not

THE following letter was handed me by a friend, who had urged the writer of it to see the incomparable Dixey for the first time, last week:

"DEAR ——: There are many things I like about you. Your youth, it is charmingly refreshing; your beauty, it is so unique; and your innocence--oh! your innocence-what shall I say about that? Well, it is like a workingman's delegate-pays best to keep it

idle.

But your ability to persuade people to do what they don't like is something marvelous. This ability was worked on me, till I was obliged to do it. So I did. I went to see him. What, him? Why, the great and only--the Dixey! He was in Philadelphia, and I was told of the great favor, the unmeasured favor, accorded me when I got a two-dollar ticket and a second-rate seat. What do I think of him? Well, I don't know. I don't think. He is an ineffaceable Fact. He is the only man I have had the misfortune to see or hear outside a minstrel entertainment who can get off the antiquest (good word) walnuts in such a cool way, and yet make money out of it. (What thinkest thou of the two cigars for twenty-five?) I don't want to say anything about the remainder of the company, except that their cheerfulness was changed to gloom since last I saw them--their sprightly activity to dull apathy. In deference to your age and experience, I remained as long as my poor shattered frame would allow, and then rushed off to Boston to hear Sam Jones. What do I think of Dixey? Nixey!"

*

I TRUST that you will honor one of Martinelli's sight-drafts soon, drawn in my favor. Yours hypnotically,

Lyman F. George.

PLAYS AND PLAY-WRITING. SUCCESS IN PLAY-WRITING TO WHAT IT IS DUE, ETC.

The

THAT plays have succeeded despite the animadversions of the critics is a fact confessed. The same remark may be made of actors. The critic, who is commonly supposed to know what a play should be, falls back on the hackneyed excuse of neglected genius-degenerate age or depraved public taste. critic (professional as well as amateur), apt in all the canons of art, apt in rules of grammar and of rhetoric sees a dramatic composition violating his cherished and much insisted rules of "construction" coining money for manager, creating (that's the word) reputation for the actor and doing both for the author. He may exhaust his vocabulary in abuse and strain his faculties in demonstrating that the trash should not succeed. It succeeds all the same. Succeeds notwithstanding a consensus of opinion, among the knowing ones, without right or title. It's womanly in its stubborn persistency, its unreasonable fullness of success.

Macready said Bulwer's "Richelieu" would be acted as long as there was a stage, or words to that effect. Some one else phrased the verdict of most men of education in saying it was not a good play but only mimiced good playwriting. To every man who knows anything of Roman Catholicism, hurling the curse of Rome and drawing the circle round Julie are, to use vulgar but expressive terms, "clap-trap bosh." It was, is, and will continue to be a success, because it moves the feelings of all men as a class, because it is an acting play.

Under the critic's scalpel" Hazel Kirke" is as veritable trash as one could find. What man whose education (used in its broad signification) has not dulled the edge of his emotions ever failed to enjoy the evening spent with it?

A play may offend Nym Crinkle and the actors torture Mr. Ayres, but the public go all the same and enjoy it. Now, why? This is the question I purpose trying to solve.

I admire very much all this struggle of the critics for art and the elevation of the stage, etc. It serves its purpose and it does good. Now and then I admire, while I pity, the selfsacrificing devotee who, "enthused" by reading the critic's eloquent appeals, lavishes his wealth, responsive to their declamation. He does good-very much good.

I laugh at all this talk about the press and stage being educators, degraded to depravers of the public taste, as if, "like beauty, they too oft forgot their own self-reverence and looked on prostitution as a duty." I laugh, because it is "rot."

The public will not buy what it doesn't want. Compulsory education in this direction is very well if it were possible. The stage dare not attempt to degrade public taste. It is as a rule, like everything else dependent on public patronage, an exponent. Tell me the character of play and actor and I will tell you the character of the audience. You know the story, "Wake me up when Kirby dies." The stage and the press will continue to feed the public with such food as the public find palatable. The old intellectual "weep" about high art will not have any effect. A play written and acted to suit the taste of Mr. Winter might be a miserable failure in a city filled with Mr. Wheelers.

Theatres are attended by all classes of men, not by one particular class.

Men of great intellectual endowments educated to the full limit of their capacities, reducing everything to fixed and determined laws, whose nervous organizations have reached that point of training which forces everything into the domain of pure reason, to whom poverty is a consequence of want of judgment or lack of industry, etc., to whom the sins of the father are visited on the children is a law of nature, not a Divine injunction or infliction, who believe in stored virtue,"" acquired faculties," the silent toil of the first generation becoming the transmitted aptitude of the next, etc., are one class. Men (fashionable women particularly) who have trained themselves to believe all these things, without understanding or knowing the truths of their creed, are of another. To them declamatory passion is shocking, grating on their nerves. They do not like scenes. They do not want their emotions exercised or their feelings wrought up, for to them it is pain not pleasure. To this class the smooth society drama is art, high art. Passion and the wild eloquence of passion, giving its voice as free a charter as the air" are ranting, coarse and unrefined. For this class an officer of the navy may, when charged with dishonesty, appeal in words for faith in him. Whenever their numerical strength is sufficient, in a single city, to warrant a manager in running a theatre dramas will be acted (I should say be read), displaying the skill of an author in the analysis of mind. Then the author will hold up to his audience physiological and pathological mental phenomena. Actors will not act, they will read.

Lord Byron said that Shakespeare was the greatest of dramatists and the worst of models. Text enough, for one who knows, to write a book. I am not a critic and do not care to arrogate the prerogative of dictating to other people what they should think, but I think he is the greatest of dramatists because he effects