Many of the earliest admirers of Lawrence Barrett were gratified during last week by a careful revival of Mr. W. G. Wills's romantic drama of "The Man o' Airlie." I have always insisted that Jamie Harebell is Mr. Barrett's best performance, and one which is so singularly marked with delicacy and force as to place it above anything else that he does. Mr. Barrett's position as a tragedian is well understood and appreciated, and in comedy he can be as sparkling as the brook which dances in the sunlight; but it is in the shade of sorrow that his voice and his face find touching favor and call to other eyes the tears which must follow from human sympathy. Mr. Wills's drama is poetic, dramatic and domestic; the story is simple. The young poet born of the woods, the fields and the flowers, his happy home with "gude wife and bairns," the villagers who sing his songs, and throw roses on his hearthstone; the ambition to publish his verses and hardearned money for the same, intrusted with the manuscript to a villain who not only steals that, but triple the amount, which Harebell's heart

cannot refuse; his wrecked home, the loss of wife and babe, his struggle in the city where he sees not the spring opening life on meadow and hillside, the escape of his reason, his supafter many

posed death and his reappearance years as an imbecile old man at the foot of the statue erected to "James Harebell, the Poet of the Poor!"

I know of no other actor who could play this part now; I know of no other actor who could grasp the basket of flowers when they are brought to Harebell's failing mind, and win from an audience such choking sympathy. Those who have known grief and despair cannot watch with undimmed eye and without convulsive feeling Harebell's reply to old Saunders, who says, "And how's the gude wife?" and is blind to the crape which is before him.

These are merely random thoughts which come to me in thinking over this most touching performance. I would not make invidious comparison, but if Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle is never to be forgotten, Barrett's Jamie Harebell deserves a higher niche. It may seem incongruous to pay out money to be grieved, but if affliction makes us better men and women, then humanity must gain by such a play as this, for it copulates conscience and intelligence with fellow-suffering, and this produces the best kind of religion.

The company did passably well. Mr. Benjamin Rogers was artistic and interesting as old Saunders. D. IV.

distributed thirty thousand dollars for the privilege of making this début. Miss Olcott is our authority for the statement, and her "advance agents," who appear to be men of unlimited resources and veracity, support her statement with the usual vouchers. It is clear that Miss Olcott belongs to the new school of actresses, a school as clearly defined and individual as that which produced Mrs. Siddons, Mary Duff, Charlotte Cushman, Mary Anderson, and the scores of fine, honest actresses who have brought distinction to the stage. The contrast between these two schools is somewhat marked. Mrs. Siddons, for example, earned her place in the theatre. It was only by hard labor, continuous study and patience, that she earned it. It may be said that every American actress who deserves esteem and admiration, has gone through an education almost as prolonged as that of the great Siddons. The training may not have been so bitter, but it has been quite as slow. Thought, effort, modesty, - these were needed in the old school. They are not needed in the new school. We have gone ahead of our sluggish ancestors. They made actresses by years of training. manufacture them in a day. They were eager to bring talent upon the stage. We are anxious to bring money upon it. Women like the Siddons were the results of genius and application.

We

Women like the Olcott are the results of ignorance and presumption. Great actresses were never the product of advance agents, notoriety in the newspapers, purchased puffery and a bank account. But Miss Olcott has profited by these modern improvements, and she is certainly a triumph of Barnumism.

Miss Olcott is a young person from Brooklyn, who made up her mind not long ago that she could not help herself forward more rapidly than by presenting Victorien Sardou's “Théodora," which had been performed successfully in Paris and London, and which had been written for Mme. Bernhardt. Miss Olcott felt herself competent to act the character of Théodora. She visited Paris. She talked with Sardou. The French dramatist took kindly to her, it is said, rehearsed her carefully in the stage business of the character, and assisted her with practical suggestions. It is

possible that Miss Olcott paid well for the suggestions; at any rate, she returned to this city with a kind of prestige, the sort of prestige that Mr. Barnum bestows with so much dexterity upon a circus rider or an elephant. It was not Miss Olcott's talent, training, education, that we were asked to give thought to; it was Miss Olcott's ability to pay for what she got, her intimacy with Sardou (who is something of a Simpson, of the three gold balls), her magnificent apparel, her superb audacity.

Other women of the stage might grope upward step by step; Miss Olcott was determined to rise at a bound. The result was inevitable. Miss Olcott has exhibited herself in a character that would test the most profound and subtle genius. She has a pretty face,a graceful figure, good intentions and some talent. She has thrust herself into a dangerous prominence. With a fatuous vanity, which it is not easy to comprehend, she endeavors to express the savage passions of a triple-natured woman, an imperial and terrible woman; and she may really believe that her hopeless incompetency is dignified by effort into tragic genius. It is not pretended that Miss Olcott lacks intelligence, nor that, under right guidance and in a right spirit, she might not win a rational place upon the stage. But a primary student does not begin with a "Théodora."

Théo

There can be little doubt that Sardou has depicted, in this extraordinary character, one of the most effective and powerful individualities of the stage. From a purely theatrical point of view, nothing could be better. dora is intensely interesting. She is a complex, thoroughly human being. The motives that lead her on divergent lines of purpose and action are dramatic motives, because they reveal the spontaneity of life. There is a superabundance of passionate instinct, brain and heart in Théodora. The sides of her character seem at first glance to be so glaringly contrasted as to be inconsistent or inharmonious; but, as ~ matter of fact, they fit together perfectly. She had been a common courtesan, who earned her living by selling herself and dancing in the circus; she becomes the wife of Justinian and empress of Byzantium; finally, she gives her love, awakened after a career of wantonness

and shame, to a man who trusts her and whom she betrays involuntarily. She is simultaneously the vulgar harlot, the brilliant and courageous empress, the tender-hearted lover; she is three women in one, and only an actress whose sympathy with life is broad and exhaustive could make such a woman live on the stage. To our mind, there is no peculiar force or intellectual scheme in Sardou's play outside of this dominating character. The situations, it is true, are skilfully contrived and are singularly picturesque; the action is large, rapid and luminous. But the plan of the work is conventional, and the work itself really amounts to nothing higher than a melodrama made for a Parisian audience. The intrigue is not fresh, and has, indeed, been used more than once by Sardou. It is the old intrigue of adultery and violent cross-purposes; a gorgeous and romantic background of history, instead of the dull background of a French salon, adds color and novelty to it. But the play resolves itself into a familiar spectacle. All the personages, with the single exception of Théodora, are sketchy and declamatory. Their proficiency in speech-making becomes, in fact, monotonous. And Sardou, clever as he is, does not happen to be a poet, nor even a dramatist in the highest sense. The comedy which relieves the somber scenes 'Théodora " smacks of the boule

of

vards. The tragedy is boisterous and obtrusive. One feels, also, in watching the progress of this heavily built play, an occasional want of sincerity, as though the work were a dexterous piece of mechanism rather than a noble and beautiful drama. It should be added that Sardou has not endeavored to construct what is called an historical play. The Théodora of history was a woman of intellect and force, who, it is even surmised, codified the Roman laws, and died honorably. As to Justinian, whom Sardou depicts as a whining Cowaru anu bully, he is supposed to have been a wise and just ruler. But the writers of history do not agree on this point, and Sardou had undoubtedly a right to take the worst, rather than the best view of the Emperor's character. Matthew Arnold says: "History is a Mississippi of lies." The dramatist can

This is the cast of something-or-other which Messrs. Yardley and Stephens, the English writers, are pleased to call a melodramatic, operatic burlesque. It was brought forward in this country Monday last at the Bijou Theatre, presumably as a vehicle for Mr. Nathaniel Goodwin to display his rare mimetic gifts and peculiar qualifications for stage entertainment. But the part of Jonathan Wild does not do anything of the sort; Blueskin could be easily made the chief thing, and in the character Mr. C. B. Bishop is extremely funny. Mr. Goodwin has endeavored to find something which might do him service as "Adonis" did Dixey, but he has certainly failed in this, for a more stupid lot of nonsense I have seldom seen. Mr. Goodwin is a wonderfully bright comedian, and should not sell himself to such a second-rate attempt, which "Little Jack Sheppard" assuredly is. In order to attract the people as Mr. Dixey did, Mr. Goodwin must find a part that will enable him to interest by his personal magnetism.

D. W.

BOTH SIDES OF THE CURTAIN.

LAST week was to have been the "booming" period of the dramatic season. By this I mean that, on the authority of managers, actors and newspaper critics, the week beginning with September 13 was to be the real and unmistakable inauguration of a dramatic season without equal since the "war, sah." Your dramatic critic will, of course, have his say about the two notable productions of the week, namely, "Théodora at Niblo's, and "Jack Sheppard" at the Bijou. I am concerning myself only with what the actors in these plays say, and what the play-goers at each house announced as their thoughts. At Niblo's the curtain fell at 1.15 A.M., giving the audience just five hours and a quarter of M. Sardou's "Théodora." Nevertheless, very few people left the house except for refreshments, and hundreds were heard to say that "Théodora" was worth a second visit if she could only get through her stormy career before midnight. On the stage, however, something very like chaos reigned. Miss Olcott, who had spent about $30,000 on the production, naturally nervous about the task she had undertaken in trying to act Sardou's heroine, was nearly distracted at the long "waits ' caused by the heavy scenery and settings. Mr. Hudson Liston, who acted the leading male character, was just preparing to "go on" for his "great scene at 12:30 A. M., when the management "implored" him to cut it short. Just fancy Salvini being asked to cut his great scene in the third act of Othello short and you can imagine Mr. Liston's feelings. That gentleman honestly strove to cut his scene down, but in striving to find where he could leave out a line he, of course, prolonged the situation and did justice neither to his author nor himself. Everybody in the cast was similarly harassed, and the wonder is that the performance was so smooth. Miss Olcott had promised M. Sardou to give his play to America without abridging a line, and so she did for one night, after which the cutting that play received may be imagined from the fact that, on Tuesday night, the curtain fell at 11:30, and on Wednesday at 11:15. Thus, in two nights two hours were cut out of Sardou and the stage carpenters, and when another half-hour is saved Théodora" will be ripe for the public.

THE young, handsome and talented leading man is the rara avis which theatrical managers are persistently seeking. While the ordinary play-goer was, on Monday night, following the fortunes of "Théodora," some dozen managers had eyes only for Mr. Gilmour, the jeune premiere of the cast, who made his first appearance in New York. I can say nothing

but

of his acting, as I have not seen it, but I can report what the managers say, and, though they are not unanimous, a majority of them declare that Montague's successor has arrived. One up-town impresario announced that Mr. Gilmour had the form of an Apollo and the voice of an Orpheus, while a Western manager declared that the only trouble was that Mr. Gilmour had no "intellect into him;" when the said manager's daughter decided that the actor in question was "just too lovely for anything," he backed down by insinuating that actors needed no brains nowadays. Mr. Gilmour is a young Canadian, hailing from Montreal. He is a gentleman of birth, breeding and education, and whatever his gifts may be, his character will certainly make him welcome to those who wish well to the stage. By the way, it is an open secret that on Monday night Mr. Gilmour was in a terrible state of nervousness, and just before the cue came for his first entrance he hesitated whether he would go on the stage or get out into Crosby street, get into a cab, and drive to the Grand Central Depot on his way back to Montreal. Fortunately he decided to do his duty and has, according to general opinion, begun a highly successful career in this country.

WHEN dramatic critics are unanimous their unanimity is something wonderful. Had Mr. Nat. Goodwin depended entirely on the "opinions" of the morning journals, he would on Tuesday morning, as Lord Byron did eighty years ago, have got out of bed and found himself famous. But Mr. Goodwin, though enthusiastic, is not blind. Neither he was he deaf to the absence of applause after the first act of "Jack Sheppard." But the critics, bless their honest and unbiased souls, united in saying that all previous fun had been eclipsed by Mr. Goodwin's Jonathan Wild, and that he had revived that "harmless gaiety of nations" which Lord Byron, again, mourned over some seven decades ago. But about 10 P.M. Mr. Goodwin looked over the heads of his audience, and saw friends and strangers slowly straggling out, and he made up his mind that Little Jack Sheppard" would have some trouble in keeping the Bijou flock together. The rhapsodies in the morning papers did not console him in the least, and several hours of each day last week were spent in revising the English burlesque, cutting out the atrocious cockney puns, and importing a little native humor into it. By to-night "Little Jack Sheppard" will be considerably improved, and there will be considerable more Nat. Goodwin in it. But when Humpty Dumpty fell off that fabulous wall all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't set him up again. I hope Mr. Goodwin will fare

better, but he requires authors more "to the manner born" than Messrs. Yardley and Stephens. By the way, as a strong but honest expression of opinion, I may quote what a veteran lady journalist and an ardent admirer of Mr. Goodwin said on Monday night. She arrived promptly and threw a bouquet at Nat. on his first appearance. She was wreathed in smiles until the end of the first act, when a gloom fell over her face which never left it till the curtain came down. At the end of the second act a gentleman of somewhat coarse phrase approached the lady and ventured to suggest that the performance was a "rotten one," to which the lady promptly replied, "Yes, sir, rotten with a double-you-wrotten, that's the way to spell it."

99 66

ENGLISH theatrical managers are already hard at work on the coming Christmas pantomimes. But why, oh why, will they not try a few fresh themes? I find by their own announcements, that the old fables are all going to be worked over again. London will have "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves," "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp,' Cinderella," 'Mother Goose" and "Goody Two Shoes." "Ali Baba" furnishes thirty provincial theatres with pantomime themes, while Cinderella" appears in seven different country cities, and "The Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe" turns up all over the United Kingdom. I suppose the pantomime-loving Britisher likes these old stories with a good conservative relish, but the average American, I think, would prefer sighing even for the unattainable to crying, while pretending to laugh over nursery rhymes and echoes of a lost youth. Thackeray tells us that the "spring-time is the best," and I quite agree with him. But it does not make a torrid midsummer or a melancholy autumn any the more enjoyable to be reminded of the faded beauties of the spring-time.

A VERY curious and somewhat amusing error came across the cables recently. A London correspondent announced the fact that a great emotional drama, "Tom Taylor's Retribution," was about to be revived at the Haymarket Theatre. This seemed a very strange title for an emotional play. It hardly appeared possible that Tom Taylor's anything could be emotional. But it all lay in the manner in which the telegraph cierk affixed the inverted commas. What the correspondent meant was "Retribution," by Tom Taylor. The genial Tom Taylor, I trust, has never met with any retribution. The telegraph clerk was probably as innocent of dramatic literature as was the librarian of romances when he put in his catalogue 'Mill on Political Economy"— ditto "On the Floss."

The Man in the Street.

44

BURTON'S

OLD THEATRE.

TANDING near the entrance of the old Court House on Chambers street, yesterday, I saw old Tom Smith gazing at the huge building of the American News Company. "What is the matter, Tom?" I inquired. "Oh! nothing; I was only thinking." Tom?" "Well,"

Thinking about what, said he. Ithinking how fast time flies, and what shadows we are and what shadows we pursue. You see that big building over there, the American News Company? Well, you remember when Burton's Chambers Street Theatre stood there, and I was looking up at the figure of the newsboy in the niche, and recalling when the late Judge Dowling was a newsboy with John Hoey and used to sell newspapers around the theatres. Judge Dowling afterwards became a police officer at Burton's, and Hoey went with Adams' Express Company, and I became gas-man and general janitor for Burton's Theatre; that's a good many years ago, when you were with Jonas B. Phillips, the dramatist for the theatre. Next to the theatre was a low frame building with a long front stoop; it was a well-known public house, then kept by the famous Charley Foote. Next to Foote's stood the heavy walls of the celebrated Manhattan water works, then mossgrown and ivy-covered. You see now only these magnificent marble buildings on their sites. Under Burton's Theatre were the bestknown bar and billiard rooms and restaurant then in New York, kept first by Charley Herbert and afterwards by Harry Rabineau. The walls were decorated with the life-size portraits of all the celebrated actors of France, England and America, in addition to a theatrical gallery of rare pictures of great value; it attracted visitors from all over. was the place where all the actors, journalists, politicians and prominent men of the town congregated. I've seen there the great Ogden Hoffman, the brilliant James T. Brady, the witty John Van Buren, Francis B. Cutting, Major M. M. Noah, the founder of the Sunday

That