Part 22

The thing was got up by a firm of four hustling young men, who have already thrown into a panic the older firm, causing them to announce for this new season lithographed covers done in six colors. Whether as a whole the thing will be as attractive as the Weber program remains to be seen, but, in any case, the public are to be congratulated, for as the spirit of competition has entered the field, audiences will reap the benefit.

In London you buy your program from the young woman who shows you to your seat, for whom this practical Clement Scott had no great liking. Of this young woman Mr. Scott said:

I prefer the American “usher,” with the suave but determined manner, to our haughty and flighty girls at home, who think it a condescension to show you to your seat, the whereabouts of which they are usually as ignorant of as you are yourself. In an American theater you are marshaled to your seat with military regularity. In England you are at the mercy of some Miss Tousle Head who, so far as her business is concerned, is either insolently independent or sublimely ignorant.

CRITICS BAD WEATHERCOCKS.

Last Season’s Records Proved Inability of Newspaper Writers to Show How Dramatic Winds Were Blowing.

Of what use are dramatic critics anyway? Brady’s attack on them from the stage last winter was a mere pin-prick to the humiliation they must feel as makers of public opinion in connection with “The Lion and the Mouse.” When the play was brought out in New York last fall the comments were almost universally adverse, yet the people took to the piece like ducks to water, and it looks now as if it would run the year round at the Lyceum. When it was tried in London, on the other hand, the reviews were exceedingly favorable, and yet the thing lasted barely two weeks.

Take, for example, the London _Daily Telegraph_, which summed up its report in these words: “To last night’s audience, let it be added, the piece made evidently a very direct and forcible appeal, the applause at the end of the third act, as on the final fall of the curtain, being of the most tumultuous and enthusiastic description.”

The _Standard_ declared: “‘The Lion and the Mouse’ is a play to be seen—it is imperfect and crude, but it is drama, strong, intense, undeniable.”

The _Tribune_ even went so far in its praise that it felt constrained to add: “As a sop to our national self-respect, however, we may remember that the author, Charles Klein, hails originally from this side of the Atlantic.”

PLAYHOUSE NOMENCLATURE.

The Names of Some Recently Christened Theaters Indicate a Painful Lack of Propriety and Variety.

The announcement that David Belasco will manage the new theater to be built in Forty-Fourth Street, and will call it the Stuyvesant, adds another appropriately named house to the group that has been growing up in New York of late years. The Hudson, the New Amsterdam, the Knickerbocker, the Manhattan and the Astor are all indigenous of the soil and are to be commended.

Liberty is not bad, although, to be sure, it would be more happily situated in Philadelphia than in Gotham. The Quaker City is now to make a needed departure from its run on street nomenclature by calling the house now building the William Penn Theater.

Speaking of Pennsylvania, it was too bad Pittsburgh sank the historic Duquesne in “Belasco”—all right in itself, but the name Belasco loses its force as a distinctive title when duplicated too many times. Three cities now have theaters of this title—New York, Washington, and Pittsburgh.

And Shuberts, more’s the pity, will soon be as thick as huckleberries in August. The house that should be known by this name is the Princess in New York, which would thereby be exchanging a cognomen perfectly inappropriate in America, for one that would much better stand over one house in New York than over twenty elsewhere.

It is a thousand pities that the name Booth was suffered to vanish from over a theater’s doors when Booth’s, at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, was pulled down. All that remains of it is a bust of Shakespeare in the side wall of McCreery’s, on the latter thoroughfare.

It is odd, too, when you come to think of it, that we have no Shakespeare Theater. It is a pity Charles Frohman did not use this—or at any rate Globe (the name of the house Shakespeare managed) rather than Empire. This might better have been Republic, which, when the Empire was opened in 1893, was still in the market, not having been affixed to the theater which Hammerstein built later and very soon passed over to Belasco. Another absolutely footless theater name in the United States is Savoy. Garrick is good, and Criterion not bad.

WHAT MAKES A PLAY?

English Managers Tell of the Methods They Employ In Estimating Value of Manuscripts.

Not long since the _Grand Magazine_, of London, held a symposium of opinions from the leading English managers on the elements in a play which determined their acceptance or rejection of it. It cannot be said that the result may be read with much profit by the aspiring playwright. Doubtless those managers who, according to a footnote, declined “for one reason or another” to discuss the methods which governed their choice, were wiser in their day and generation than those who did. For, after all, it is a gamble. And what’s one man’s meat may be another’s poison.

Take, for example, the assertion of Frederick Harrison, of the London Haymarket. He declares:

“I must be quite alone when I read a play, secure from interruption, and read it through at a sitting, and rapidly. If it will not bear rapid reading there is generally something wrong—incoherence of story, clumsiness of dialogue, or something that detracts from the probability of success for the play.”

Contrast this method with an incident vouched for in the _Dramatic Mirror_ by the popular playwright Haddon Chambers, on his recent visit to this country. Speaking of one of his most successful plays, he said:

“Mr. Beerbohm Tree had the piece three months before he ever looked at it. Then, one day, I managed to read him the first two acts. The following day he was slightly indisposed and very courteously put me off. I saw him go into the Turkish bath, followed him, finished the reading then and there, and had the work accepted.”

Lewis Waller, the actor-manager, practically gets no further in the course of half a page report than telling the kind of play he does _not_ want—ordinary melodrama or a farcical comedy.

Frank Curzon, who rivals Charles Frohman in the number of theaters he manages, and who is now a partner with James K. Hackett in “Mr. Hopkinson” and other ventures in America, says, on the other hand:

“When I read a play, I do not care to which class it belongs. If it hits me hard enough I produce it.”

The recipe for George Edwardes, the great musical comedy producer, is first an idea that shall be simple in character but capable of elaboration in a way that shall give striking opportunities to the members of his company. Often the _locale_ or the background for the piece is selected long before the plot is attached to it.

W. H. Kendal, who frequently used to visit us with his wife—a sister of the late Tom Robertson, the teacup and saucer playwright—insists rather indefinitely that the characters shall live before him and that their story shall interest him.

Tom B. Davis, another musical comedy expert, in whose theater “Florodora” was brought out, thinks that the plot is not of supreme importance, but he wants the low comedian woven into the story in such a way that when the lovers find themselves in a predicament the audience shall know that it is he who will help them out. He also deems it advisable that “a dramatic situation shall be led up to in the finale of the first act, in which the baritone and the prima donna shall be the central figures.”

Altogether, Mr. Davis is the most explicit in his rules of any of the bunch, for of the two remaining entries for the _Grand’s_ symposium, Fred Terry—who originally produced “Sunday”—sums up the order in which the interesting factors in a play should be put as, first, Heart; second, Heart; third, Heart, and Cyril Maude, the English _Little Minister_, confines himself to the statement that he would not choose a gloomy play.

WHO WOULD NOT BE A BOY?

All Things Considered, He Is a Lucky Little Mortal, Though Perhaps He Does Not Always Realize It Until He Has Passed That Age “When Thought Is Speech, and Speech Is Truth.”

THE BOY.

By W. H. Pierce.

I wouldn’t be a single thing on earth Except a boy; And it’s just an accident of birth That I’m a boy; And, goodness gracious! When I stop and think That I once trembled on the very brink Of making my appearance here a girl It fairly makes my ears and eyebrows curl— But I’m a boy.

Just think of all the jolly fun there is When you’re a boy! I tell you, you’re just full of business When you’re a boy. There’s fires to build in all the vacant lots. Go swimmin’, tie the fellers’ clothes in knots, Tie tin-cans on the tails of dogs—why, gee! The days ain’t half as long as they should be When you’re a boy.

There’s lots of foolish things that make you tired When you’re a boy; There’s heaps of grouchy men that can’t be hired To like a boy; There’s wood to chop at home, and coal to bring, And “Here, do this—do that—the other thing!” And, worse than all, there’s girls—oh, holy smoke! Are they a crime, or are they just a joke Upon a boy?

And then, there’s always somebody to jaw When you’re a boy— Somebody always laying down the law To every boy; “Pick up your coat; see where you’ve put your hat; Don’t stone the dog, don’t tease the poor old cat; Don’t race around the house”—why, suffrin’ Moses! The only time you have to practise things like those is When you’re a boy!

And yet, I don’t believe I’d change a thing For any boy; You’ve got to laugh, to cry, to work, to sing, To be a boy; With all his thoughtless noise and care less play, With all his heartfelt trials day by day, With all his boyish hopes and all his fears, I’d like to live on earth a thousand years And be a boy. _Chicago Times-Herald._

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SONG OF THE MODERN ATONEMENT

By J. W. Foley.

Sumtimes i wisht i was a pirut so i woodunt hafftoo go to skool uno but fli mi skulankroasboans in the breez ann berry awl mi treashur in the seez neer sum lost iland ann sum uther day ide kum ann dive fore it ann bare away the spannish dubloons i had hidd ann ther go back to the old town i livd in wenn i was a boy ann settul down ann sho um awl i am not prowd ur sweld uno.

then i wood bi the teecher a noo dres fore she wood nede it badd enuf i gess ann fownd a norfens hoam ann sel iskream fore onley wott it kost ann it wood seam a parradice on urth ann every day ide give beafstake ann bukweet flower away too awl the poor ann wenn thay past the hatt ide dropp a hundered dollur bil in thatt too maik the preecher gladd ann help him bi owr way to thoas brite manshuns in the ski.

ann aftur wile i wood repent mi dedes bi dooen things wich everybuddy nedes ann spennden mi ilgoten welth to fownd sum collidges with statchoos awl arownd ann hayv a littul munney left soze i woant be a popper wenn i kum too di. then i wood urn foargivness fore mi past ann be content to no thatt now at last ime dooen good ann trien to atoan fore dedes i did wile aftur welth aloan. _Saturday Evening Post._

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ADAM: THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS A BOY.

Of all the men the world has seen Since Time his rounds began, There’s one I pity every day— Earth’s first and foremost man; Just think of all the fun he missed By failing to enjoy The dear delights of youthtime, For—he never was a boy.

He never stubbed his naked toe Against a root or stone, He never with a pin-hook fished For minnows all alone; He never sought the bumblebee Among the daisies coy, Nor felt its business end, Because—he never was a boy.

He never hookey played, nor tied A bright and shining pail, Down in the alley all alone, To a trusting poodle’s tail. And when he home from swimmin’ came, His pleasure to destroy No slipper interfered, Because—he never was a boy.

He might remember splendid times In Eden’s bowers—yet He never acted _Romeo_ To a six-year _Juliet_. He never sent a valentine Intended to annoy His good but maiden aunt, Because—he never was a boy.

He never cut a kite string, no, Nor hid an Easter egg; He never spoiled his pantaloons A playin’ mumbley-peg. He never from the attic stole A ‘coon-hunt to enjoy, Nor found the “old man” waiting, For—he never was a boy.

I pity him, why should I not? I even drop a tear; He never knew how much he missed; He never will, I fear. And always when those dear old days My memories employ, I pity him, earth’s only man Who—never was a boy. _Pittsburgh Dispatch._

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THE BOY WHO LIVES NEXT DOOR.

By S. E. Kiser.

The boy who lives next door Has freckles on his face; His ears are red and hang Away out into space, And when I hear a dog ki-yi And see it flee in terror, I Can quickly guess the cause— ’Tis merely that one more Poor little victim knows A boy resides next door.

He runs across the lawn I’ve nursed with jealous care, And, in the summer-time, Knocks down the flowers there! It seems to give him pure delight To yell around with all his might, And every week or so A pebble finds its way Against a light of glass For which I have to pay.

He has no teeth in front, His hands are cracked and brown, Twice he has nearly burned Our summer kitchen down! He calls to people, “Hey! Watch out!” And when they jump he whoops about— I used to think if God Would take him from below Up to the sky I’d try To bravely bear the blow!

The little child whose love Is all to me, one day Was stricken suddenly When I was far away— The boy who lives next door forgot To yell around, but ran and brought The doctor to the bed, And when I came, at last Shrank from me with a look Of pity as I passed!

The boy who lives next door Brought in his tops and gun, And pocketfuls of trash To please our little one; He played beside my darling’s bed, Turned cartwheels, and stood on his head And God was good to me— Let’s wait awhile before We utterly condemn “The boy who lives next door!” _Old scrap book._

FADS OF FAMOUS PEOPLE.

Some of the Follies of Which Men and Women of Genius Have Been Guilty—Queen Elizabeth Was Profane, Queen Victoria Was Superstitious, While Bacon, Dickens, and Longfellow Were Confirmed Dandies.

No man or woman is so strong as to be wholly free from weakness. If a man occupies an humble sphere in life he usually is fortunate enough to keep his fads and follies from becoming known beyond his own circle of friends. If, on the other hand, he has attained sufficient distinction in the world to be called “famous,” he must reconcile himself to seeing the public in possession of all knowledge that has to do with his personal peculiarities.

=Descartes= had a small garden where he spent all the hours not devoted to mental labor.

=Queen Elizabeth= was very profane, and when angry would kick and cuff her maids.

=Matthew Arnold’s= dogs, cat, and canary bird are mentioned dozens of times in his poems.

=Domitian= spent his leisure in catching flies and piercing them through with a needle.

=William the Conqueror= was immoderately devoted to dog-fighting and bear-baiting.

=David=, the artist, when not painting, amused himself by scraping on an old fiddle.

=Mirabeau= loved dogs, and had a famous pet, Chico, to which he was much attached.

=Mrs. Radcliffe= ate raw pork before going to work on a particularly thrilling chapter.

=Pierex=, after work hours, busied himself in arranging and caring for his coins and medals.

=Washington= was devoted to fox-hunting, and in the season usually hunted twice a week.

=Socrates= was fond of playing with children, and was often seen busy with them at their games.

=Mme. de Staël= always carried a bit of a stick in her hand and played with it as an aid to conversation.

=Blackmore=, the novelist, was fond of gardening, and spent in that amusement all he made by writing.

=Leigh Hunt=, when tired out with work, found relaxation in riding to and fro on the London omnibuses.

=Dumas=, père, disliked a noise in the house while he was writing, and kept a pet buzzard in his room.

=Vincent=, the landscape painter, disliked violets, and always avoided a field or garden where they grew.

=Prince Rupert=, the cavalryman, was fond of chemistry, and invented the glass drops called by his name.

=Berlioz=, though so famous as a composer, could play no instrument except the guitar, and that very badly.

=Hazlitt= was an enormous drinker of strong tea, which completely upset his nerves and made him miserable.

=Tycho Brahe=, “the Wizard of the Golden Nose,” always became sick at the stomach whenever he saw a fox.

=Herrick=, the poet, was fond of pigs as pets, and taught one to follow him about and to drink beer out of a mug.

=Francis Bacon= was very fond of fine clothes, and spent much of his leisure in devising new costumes for court occasions.

=Edward Fitzgerald= was a vegetarian, and believed that in adopting such a diet he had, to quote his own words, found “the great secret of it all.”

=Charles Dickens= was fond of wearing gaudy jewelry, and the clanking of his numerous gold chains announced his coming while he was yet some distance away.

=Henry W. Longfellow= had a weakness for flowered waistcoats, and he possessed many of gorgeous pattern and color.

=Queen Victoria= of England shared the common superstition about salt. She would reprimand any guest who was unfortunate enough to spill it, and throughout the remainder of the meal she would be disturbed and in ill-humor.

The House and the Brain.

BY E. BULWER LYTTON.

“The House and the Brain” has been called by many critics the most powerful and appalling story of the supernatural ever written in the English language. It appeared in 1859 in the pages of _Blackwood’s Magazine_, where it was read by thousands with a fascinated horror. Sir Edward Hamley said of it: “So elusive is the atmosphere of the tale, so vivid the description of its terrifying appearances, and so effective their connection with the agency of a malignant being possessed of supernatural powers,” that many were half convinced of its actuality. Soon after its appearance in _Blackwood’s_, a gentleman wrote to the editor of that magazine: “For God’s sake tell me what truth there is in this terrible story! My daughter has known no rest or peace since reading it.”

Its author, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, was one who, like Scott, felt a profound interest in the world of mystery. He believed in the occult powers of nature and in the strange arts of those who sought to use them. He himself “dived into wizard lore, equipped himself with magical implements, and communed with mediums and spiritualists.” The literature of alchemy and divination he studied with intense eagerness. On one occasion he drew up what he called a “geomantic figure,” by means of which he foretold the future of Disraeli. This was before that brilliant personage was seriously regarded by his associates; yet Bulwer Lytton accurately predicted his coming political triumphs and the fact that he would be at some day Prime Minister of England. After his famous ghost-story had appeared in print, Bulwer Lytton saw that he had given to a short story an idea too valuable for so slight a treatment. Therefore, when the tale was subsequently reprinted, he suppressed the second half of it and made the story end with the discovery of the secret chamber in the haunted house. The latter part he made the basis of his weird and almost equally powerful romance of mystery “A Strange Story” which was published in 1862. This is constructed around the central notion that there are arts which can indefinitely prolong human life; and in his book the chief character is the human serpent, Margrave, infinitely depraved, possessed of supernatural power and renewing his youth by mystical arts so that he is ever young and capable of fresh evil even at the end of centuries of his existence. The conception is no less bold than fascinating, and it is worked out by its author in a terrifying way. Yet nowhere does it attain to the pitch of horror and to the power of affecting the human nerves which we find in the earlier short story of which the original title was “The Haunters and the Haunted.”

The story as printed here gives the complete text precisely as it was first published in the pages of _Blackwood’s._

A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”

“Really haunted? and by what—ghosts?”

“Well, I can’t answer these questions; all I know is this: six weeks ago I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments Furnished.’ The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the rooms, engaged them by the week, and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t wonder at it.”

“What did you see?”