Going--going----

Just as, with a sputter and a flicker and a last expiring tremor, we

had begun to realize that the going season was, indeed, nearly gone,

something happened. There was a rally, and a brief return to

animation. The corpselike season sat up and waved its hands. An

electric current, applied to its extremities by one admirable actress

and one enterprising manager, was the cause of this surprising change,

and the writing of epitaphs was temporarily postponed.

The return of the season to a semblance of interesting activity was

due to the arrival in our midst of Miss Marie Tempest, who came from

England just as the sad troupe of her unsuccessful countrymen had

returned to that land. Miss Tempest, with a woman's daring, and the

true spirit of "cussedness," took every risk, and, though even the

enthusiastic and misinformed London papers have been obliged to avoid

pet allusions to the "furore created in America" by the unfortunate

English actors who failed here this season, the admirable little

comedienne had no qualms.

Nor had her manager, Mr. Charles Frohman. It is pleasant, at times, to

record managerial enterprise that cannot possibly be a bid for

pecuniary reward. Mr. Frohman, whose name is often unfortunately

mentioned in connection with the sad, cruel, oppressive, commercial

speculators in dramatic "goods," belongs absolutely and utterly to

another class. It is ten thousand pities that the enthusiasm and real

artistic fervor of this undaunted, farseeing manager should be

shadowed by this association. Mr. Frohman actually sent Miss Marie

Tempest and her English company over from London for a short stay here

of four weeks, merely to let us sample her new play, "The Freedom of

Suzanne," that had been so well received in England.

Those who try to tar Mr. Frohman with the commercial brush will

readily perceive their error. Had Miss Tempest packed the Empire

Theater at every performance, the enormous expenses of this

undertaking could never have been defrayed. The manager did not

quiver. The actress--viewing the return of her countrymen, with

flaccid pocketbooks, from the land of dollars--had no misgivings. She

came, and she saw, and she conquered.

Miss Tempest, in "The Freedom of Suzanne," was worth waiting for. She

was worth suffering for. We were perfectly willing to admit that the

season was over, and we were not sorry, for it was one of the worst on

record. But to the Empire we trooped to sample this last offering, and

it was so good, and so delightful, that it flicked the season back for

a month. Miss Tempest had a first-night audience that gave the

"among-those-present" chroniclers quite a tussle. It seemed like early

September, when theatrical hopes run high, and the demon of

disillusion is not even a cloud as big as a man's hand.

Since Marie Tempest left musical comedy--that sinking ship--to its

fate, and devoted herself to the development of her own unique gifts

as a comedienne, her husband, Mr. Cosmo Gordon Lennox, has been the

tailor that made the plays fit. If a playwriting husband can't fit his

own wife, then his capabilities must surely be limited. Mr. Lennox

proved, in "The Marriage of Kitty" last year, that he quite understood

the eccentricities and idiosyncrasies of the clever little actress,

and knew exactly how to make them salient. Although English, nobody

could accuse Miss Tempest of being a "bread-and-butter miss." The most

vivid imagination could never associate her with a white muslin gown,

a pretty blue sash, a Christmas-card expression of surprised

innocence, and the "prunes and prisms" attendant upon those luxuries.

Mr. Lennox had to trip across the English Channel, which is a nasty,

"choppy" crossing, to find material that would suit his wife. That is

always a troublesome thing to do, because the "goods," when bought,

must be well soaked overnight, in order to remove the sting. This was

the policy he pursued with "The Marriage of Kitty." The tactics were

very similar in the case of "The Freedom of Suzanne," which was cut

from the cloth of "Gyp's" novel, "Autour du Divorce." According to the

program, the author "wished to acknowledge his indebtedness for

certain passages in the play to a novel by the Comtesse de Martel."

The "Comtesse de Martel" sounded nice and swagger, though "Gyp" is

anything but that in her novels.

The comedy was very light, and frolicsome, and jolly,

and--er--naughty, and--er--respectable. You had to stay to the very

end, which was not bitter, in order to discover that it _was_ quite

respectable. That is where the English playwright always seems to

improve upon the French. In London, a heroine may be volatile, and

saucy, and unconventional, and iconoclastic, and spicy, and shocking,

and quite horrible, but in the last act the adapter allows you to

discover that she is really a very good, nice, whole-hearted woman;

that she loves her husband in a faithful, wifely way, and that she

will live happily ever afterward, a perfect picture of all the

domestic graces. The curse has gone! It is the triumph of

deodorization.

So in "The Freedom of Suzanne," while _Suzanne_ danced a veritable

_can-can_ through two acts, she was brought back to a sedate English

jig in the third. It was a play that could not stand, and that did not

need a close analysis, for it was just a vehicle by means of which

Miss Tempest could let loose the matchless bag-o'-tricks among which

her art may be said to lurk. _Suzanne_ gave her the finest acting part

that she has ever had. It was an intellectual treat to sit and watch

the really exquisite, delicate work that she embroidered upon the

diaphanous theme of the amusing little comedy.

_Suzanne_ was terribly tired of her husband, and _Charles_ did seem a

bit of a bore. He was the type of "married man" who can no longer see

graces in the woman who belongs to him--because she belongs to him.

_Suzanne_ chafed, and wanted her freedom. She clamored for a divorce,

but there were no grounds upon which to obtain it. She yearned for the

right to select her own associates; to do what she liked; to have a

good time, and to be responsible to nobody. There was a mother-in-law

in the case, of course, and, although the brand has become tiresome,

this particular lady was necessary in order to emphasize _Suzanne's_

apparently hapless plight.

Miss Tempest's success was assured when, in the first act, she recited

the story of her own scandalous doings, with the divorce in view. As a

piece of acting, this was worth the attention of every theatergoer.

The actress sat on a sofa, and ran through the list of episodes in an

amazing way. Some of her story she told with her eyes, with her facial

expression, with gestures; the rest she set down in words freighted

with every variety of intonation. Not once did she rise from that

sofa. The other people were grouped around her, and all they had to do

was to display astonished horror. They made a framework.

You were held in a grip of admiration by the telling effect of this

scene. No other actress could have played it as Miss Tempest did. Her

every meaning leaped over the footlights. Not a word, or the

inflection of a word, escaped attention. It was an absolutely flawless

piece of comedy. The artistic comedy of Rejane lacked the richness and

unction of Miss Tempest's methods. Those who failed to see "The

Freedom of Suzanne" missed a rare treat.

There was very little plot, of course. _Suzanne_ got her divorce by

collusion, in a manner that was a bit surprising in view of the fact

that _Charles_ was portrayed as a man of culture and refinement. In

order to please _Suzanne_, he gave her a good shaking in the presence

of a witness--as grounds for divorce! It was while waiting for the

decree to be made "absolute" that _Suzanne_ naturally discovered her

love for him, and her rooted objection to the attentions of the three

blackguards who were kowtowing before her. This assuredly was not new.

It was merely the popular divorce twist of French playwrights.

In the last act of the play, _Suzanne_ and her husband were

reconciled, and all the improprieties of the earlier acts carefully

smoothed away. "The Freedom of Suzanne" itself, however, did not

matter very much. Sledge-hammer criticism could pulverize it. Poor

little play! It did not merit any obstreperous handling, for it kept

its audience in a state of unreasoning merriment, and it encased Miss

Tempest like the proverbial glove. There is nothing more fascinating

than perfect comedy acting. It is a tonic, the exhilarating effect of

which is invaluable.

Miss Tempest brought over her London leading man, Mr. Allan

Aynesworth, a remarkably good actor of drawing-room roles. The ease

and polish of the "thoroughbred"--and "thoroughbred" is a term that

should replace the played-out "gentleman"--were convincingly shown. G.

S. Titheradge was the other popular London name in the cast. The rest

were adequate, but by no means extraordinary. They taught no lesson of

artistic excellence, but at the fag-end of the season, we were not

clamoring to be taught anything at all. Lessons were the very last

thing in the world that we hankered for. Our desire for light

entertainment was amply realized. "The Freedom of Suzanne" was a

delightful wind-up.

Mr. Frohman, it is said, announced this enterprise as the result of a

wish to do something "to be talked about." We are willing. We are

willing at any time to talk about anything that can give us as much

undiluted pleasure as this production did. We will even chatter and

frivol, if Mr. Frohman will repeat the operation. And by-the-bye, I

think that I have done both. My enthusiasm led me away. Let me

extinguish it.

From the diminutive to the enormous leads us easily in the direction

of that tremendous combination of high spirits and massive

corporeality, Miss Alice Fischer. This actress, who has been before

the public for a good many years, may be looked upon as one of those

curious metropolitan figures that have acquired more popularity off

the stage than on it. Miss Fischer has dominated feminine clubs, has

associated herself with "movements," and has posed as advocating a

National Theater, even while she did a dance every night in a classic

gem entitled "Piff, Paff, Pouf!" She has "starred" occasionally, but

never with much success. As a "good fellow" and a delightful

acquaintance, Miss Fischer has always been unsurpassed. This role, not

unusual among men, is unique among women.

Possibly you have heard of actors noted as wits, good fellows,

_bons-vivants_ and horse show figures. Their apparent popularity has

invariably led you to believe that a "starring" venture would be

stupendously successful--that their legions of friends would gather

round them, and "whoop" them toward fortune. Such, it has frequently

been proved, has not been the case. That cold, critical,

money's-worth-hungry assemblage known as the "general public" has

intervened, after a rousing "first-night" that has seemed like a riot

of enthusiasm, and has stamped its disapproval upon the proceedings.

Some of the strangest failures on the stage have been achieved by

those who were brilliantly successful off the stage.

Hitherto this has been the fate of Miss Fischer. Many admired her, but

that many were not included in the general public, that has no

pronounced predilection for club men or club women. Fortunately--and

it is a great pleasure to announce it--in her latest venture at

Wallack's Theater, a new old comedy, and a clever one, by Stanislaus

Stange, called "The School for Husbands," Miss Alice Fischer succeeded

not only with her friends, but with the great unknown. She proved

herself to be an actress of exceeding vitality and force, and she made

not only a popular but an artistic hit.

Of course she was bound to do it sooner or later. We may not have

indorsed her previous productions, but we always liked Miss Fischer,

with her bouncing good nature, her intelligent outlook, her curious

untrammeled demeanor, always suggestive of a huge schoolgirl suddenly

let loose; her capital elocution and her agreeable way of insistently

seeming at home. In "The School for Husbands," these qualities

appeared quite relevantly. This strange season, now over, which has

snuffed out so many poor, feeble little stars, has been very kind to

Miss Fischer. She "came into her own."

Mr. Stange's play was an amusing comedy, dealing with domestic

infelicity--of the tit-for-tat order--in the "old" style. That is to

say, it did not flaunt in our faces a fracture of the seventh

commandment, or drag in a series of epigrams modeled upon those of the

Duc de la Rochefoucauld and Oscar Wilde. Mr. Stange went in for what

we call the "artificial," but it all occurred in 1720. The eighteenth

century covers a multitude of sins that are naked and unashamed in the

twentieth. We were disarmed in our frenzied analysis when we were

confronted with such purely imaginary and entertaining types as _Sir

John_ and _Lady Belinda Manners_, _Lady Airish_, _Lady Speakill_,

_Lady Tattle_, _Lord Foppington_ and _Lord Drinkwell_.

We were back again amid the "old comedy" characters, of whom we always

talk with sycophantic admiration. Sometimes we loathe them, but we

never say so. There has been a sporadic revival of one or two of these

"old comedies" this season, accomplished with that "bargain-counter"

atrocity--a sop for vulgar minds--known mischievously as the

"all-star-cast." It has been amusing to watch the cold, dispiriting

and almost clammy reception accorded to these "classics," compared

with the cordiality extended to Miss Alice Fischer in her "imitation"

classic, "The School for Husbands." Yet, if a well-read, modern

playwright cannot improve upon the eighteenth century, with his

sublime knowledge of all that has occurred since--then he must indeed

be rather small potatoes.

Mr. Stange made these improvements. While the revived work of the late

Oliver Goldsmith and Dion Boucicault languished, the "old comedy" of

the twentieth century triumphed. If you saw it, you will understand

why. There were episodes in "The School for Husbands" that were very

clever and enlivening. All the characters were puppets, but they

danced with the latest electric improvements, and their gyrations

entertained. Blood they certainly lacked, but nobody cared. It was a

relief to watch this amusing but thoroughly refined tomfoolery, and to

know that no problem lurked beneath it. It was the Eden Musee,

suddenly galvanized into life and pirouetting in all its color and

brilliancy.

With Arthur Forrest, who is a fine, distinguished, subtle, convincing

actor; with Miss Grace Filkins, Jameson Lee Finney and Mrs. Ida

Jeffreys-Goodfriend, Miss Fischer managed to beat any

"all-star-cast"--the refuge of the destitute. The star herself was so

irresistible, so dominant and so largely vital, that hundreds of

people who had merely heard of Alice Fischer were glad to meet her.

This "venture" firmly established her, and the establishment was

conducted by such legitimate means that the event was unusually

interesting.

Oh, I'm tired of stars. I am--I am! Last month I devoted myself almost

exclusively to them, and now I find that the cry is still "they come,

they come!" To be sure, Miss Marie Tempest and Miss Alice Fischer both

achieved success, but now I see before me the plaintive figure of poor

little Miss Annie Russell, who didn't. Miss Russell came to the

Criterion Theater with a Zangwill play. It sounds well, doesn't

it?--but I can assure you that the sound was most misleading.

Nothing quite so drab, so despondently dreary, or so damply dismal as

"Jinny the Carrier" ever asked for a hearing and got it. Zangwill has

lectured upon the drama, and paid pungent respect to its

incongruities, but he has proved himself to be infinitely worse than

the various playwrights whom he ridiculed. "The Serio-Comic

Governess," thrust upon Miss Cecilia Loftus, was bad enough, but

"Jinny the Carrier" went far below it, and stayed there all the time.

It was an "idyll" of Frog Farm, near London, and Frog Farm seemed to

be a trifle less amusing than Hunter's Point, near New York. It

introduced us to rural types of deadly monotony, among them being a

"village patriarch," suggesting cheap melodrama; a veterinary surgeon,

a postman, a village dressmaker and _Jinny_ herself, who "ran" a

wagon, and who subsequently fell in love with a rival who tried to

drive her out of the business. There were four acts of cumulative

hopelessness, and by the time _Jinny_ was ready to get married, the

audience seemed just as ready to die of fatigue.

The humor was supplied by the village dressmaker, who owned a

mustache, and who clamored for a depilatory! This pleasing, refined

and frolicsome bit of originality failed to awaken people from their

torpor. There was a good deal of talk about pigs and horses, while

tea, cucumbers and marmalade graced the dialogue incessantly; but the

amazed audience could not indorse this rural festival. _Jinny_, amid

the pigs, horses, tea, cucumbers and marmalade, talked in Mr.

Zangwill's best style--a style replete with wordplay or pun--but her

setting killed her, and she was soon "done for."

Perhaps "Jinny the Carrier" was a joke. Who shall say? It is a bit

"fishy"--I forgot to say that a real, dead fish was among the debris

of this comedy--that two such bad plays as "Jinny the Carrier" and

"The Serio-Comic Governess" honored New York to the exclusion of

London. It is all very well to say that New York is so generous, so

appreciative, so alive to all the good points of clever writers--it is

all very well to say that, and sometimes it reads very well--but the

fact remains that these plays _had_ no good points. London would have

laughed at them in immediate derision. We need feel no pride in the

circumstance of their original production in New York. Instead, we

should feel perfectly justified in feeling extremely sorry for

ourselves. We might even say that both of these plays were foisted

upon us in a spirit of "Oh, anything's good enough for New York!"

I don't say, and I don't believe, that this was the reason we suffered

from this Zangwill rubbish. Our ill luck was due to the fact that

playwrights and plays, owing to the grinding theatrical dictatorship

that has absolutely pulverized the healthy God-given spirit of

competition, by which alone an Art can be kept alive, are few and far

between. The manager takes what he can get, and he can get precious

little, for the incentive is lacking. He is obliged to produce

something, because he has an appalling list of theaters to fill. It is

perfectly inconceivable that "Jinny the Carrier" should have been even

rehearsed. It is a sheer impossibility that anybody could have

anticipated success.

Miss Annie Russell, a sterling little artist, deserved all our

sympathy. It was sad to see her in these surroundings, battling

against the inevitable. Miss Russell can succeed with far less

material than many actresses need. Give her half a fighting chance,

and she is satisfied. It is pitiful to think of this clever young

woman freighted with affairs like "Brother Jacques" and "Jinny the

Carrier," but it was wonderful to watch her genuine efforts to do the

very best she could. There can be nothing sadder in the life of an

actress than this struggle with a forlorn hope. When that actress is

intelligent, well-read, artistic and up-to-date, as Miss Annie Russell

surely is, her plight is even more melancholy. One can scarcely view,

in cold blood, this reckless waste of fine talent.

May I pause for a few moments, and say something about the Hippodrome?

The Hippodrome was such a stupendous affair, and its opening took

place at such a singularly opportune moment, that a wave of enthusiasm

swept over this island. Every dramatic critic in town went to the

opening of the Hippodrome, while many of them crept into the "dress

rehearsal," in order to get their adjectives manicured and be ready to

rise to the occasion. This in itself was quite unique. As a colossal

American achievement, the Hippodrome loomed. It combined spectacle,

ballet, specialties, acting, singing, novelty.

In its ballet, particularly, it invited and received the admiration of

every lover of art. Nothing more beautiful than "The Dance of the Hours"

has delighted the eyes and the ears of this metropolis, that fell in

love, at first sight, with its magnificent staging, as the excuse for

the lovely music of "La Gioconda." The Metropolitan Opera House never

offered anything so sumptuous. It appealed irresistibly to the artistic

instinct. It exploded the fatuous policy that causes the appearance in

this city of those senseless, antiquated spectacles--food for neither

adult nor juvenile--known as "Drury Lane pantomime," a form of

entertainment that in its native land has begun to languish.

The ballet at the Hippodrome was a revelation, for this city has never

taken kindly to ballet, probably for the reason that it has never seen

one of genuine artistic merit. A capital performance entitled "A

Yankee Circus in Mars" was not a bit less "dramatic" than the alleged

comic operas and tiresome musical comedies that have afflicted us with

such drear persistence, and it was certainly infinitely more

plausible. It had novelty, sensational features and a superb

equipment. In addition to all this, there was a wonderful aquatic

arrangement, in which the huge stage suddenly sank and gave place to

an imposing body of water, wet and ready to receive the plunging

horses and riders, as they swam across in the pursuit of their

dramatic story.

Two young men, Messrs. Thompson and Dundy, newcomers among the jaded

and throttled amusement purveyors of the big city, were responsible

for all this, and the greatest credit is due to their "nerve" as well

as to their astonishing executive ability. The enterprise at first

seemed like some amazing "pipe-dream," from which there must be a rude

awakening, but the opening of the Hippodrome was such a bewildering

success, and so unanimously acclaimed, that the croakers were

silenced. One of these was exceedingly amusing. He had declared that

the Hippodrome must fail. Its colossal results, however, so

overwhelmed him that he forthwith announced his belief that New York

would patronize two Hippodromes, and his intention of building a

second.

The promise that Mr. Kellett Chalmers held out to us in his play of

"Abigail," with Miss Grace George, evaporated in a sad farce, or

comedy, entitled "A Case of Frenzied Finance." We had been flattering

ourselves that we had discovered a new "outlook," and we came a bad

cropper. The simian antics of an impossible bell boy, in an impossible

hotel, and his maneuvers in the arena of finance, were the "motive" of

this extremely invertebrate contribution. There was an "Arizona Copper

King"; there was his daughter; there was a gentleman from "Tombstone,

Ariz.," and there were some tourists drawn after the Clyde Fitch

style, but with none of his lightness of touch.

It was almost impossible to follow the grotesque proceedings, and

utterly impossible to find a gleam of interest in them. One of the

characters drank incessantly through two acts, and indulged in the

luxury of what is politely called a "jag." We might have been pardoned

for envying it. There are worse conditions, when it comes to the

contemplation of such a "comedy" as "A Case of Frenzied Finance." One

suspected satire occasionally, but it was mere suspicion. One was

anxious to suspect anything, but I always hold--and I may be

wrong--that the best thing to look for, when one goes to the theater,

is a play. Perhaps that is an old-fashioned notion.

This strange affair took us back to old times, when we were less

sophisticated, but it is not at all likely that "A Case of Frenzied

Finance" would have passed muster in the days when we approved and

laughed at the works of the late Charles H. Hoyt. There was generally

something salient in the Hoyt farces--some happy touch or some hit

that "struck the nail on the head." In the farce at the Savoy, there

was much of the frenzy that is usually associated with the padded

cell, and that is not, as a rule, enlivening to the outsider.

Mr. Douglas Fairbanks, a very "fresh" young actor, was the heroic bell

boy, a very bad advertisement for New York hostelries. He worked

harder than any bell boy has ever been known to do, and it seemed a

shame to waste so much effort on alleged "drammer." Mr. Fairbanks

might possibly have made more of a lasting success in a real hotel

than he will achieve in the spurious affair that was staged. A number

of others, in an extremely uninteresting cast, labored ineffectively.

Mr. Chalmers completely routed the good impression he had made in

"Abigail," and I should recommend him to "bide a wee" before hurling

further manuscripts at susceptible managers--not for their sake, but

for his own.

Mr. Paul Armstrong was luckier with "The Heir to the Hoorah." How true

it is that one can live down anything! It should be an inspiring and

consolatory thought to Mr. Kellett Chalmers. Mr. Armstrong lived down

"The Superstitions of Sue," which, one might have thought, would have

proved to be a veritable old-man-of-the-sea. This is, happily, a

forgetful and unprejudiced public, and hope is rarely extinguished.

Although "The Heir to the Hoorah" was freighted with a title so

prohibitive that people who attach importance to names might be

excused for fighting shy of it, it proved to be a play with so many

real laughs in it that criticism was disarmed--one always says that as

though criticism started armed, which is absurd!--and joined in the

somewhat irresistible mirth. It was a "Western" play, of course. "The

Heir to the Hoorah" couldn't be Eastern. But, by means of the West,

Mr. Armstrong was able to get in some amusing episodes that appealed

exclusively to the East. Much of it was devoted to parody of that

sublime institution known as "evening dress"--popular on Third Avenue

as the "dress suit."

There is nothing really funnier. Of course we are accustomed to it.

Our souls may rebel at its exigencies, but unless we happen to be

millionaires, we cannot afford to flout the conventions. We wear the

"evening dress" because we have been taught that it is respectable and

seemly. In "The Heir to the Hoorah" a number of miners and "rough

diamonds," in "a mining town east of the Divide," were portrayed in

their struggles with civilization.

It was very droll. _Dave Lacy_, _Bud Young_, _Mr. Kelly_, _Bill

Ferguson_, _Lon Perry_ and _Gus Ferris_, all gorgeously uncouth, as

far as externals go, made an admirable onslaught in the direction of

the "dress suit." "Immaculate evening dress," as we call the garb of a

man who is rigged up in imitation of the elusive but energetic

restaurant waiter, has rarely been more humorously attacked. This

feature went much further than did the story of the play. But it

served to put an audience in such a good humor that the somewhat

trivial play itself seemed better than it really was. Certainly no

European playwright could have seen the ludicrous possibilities of

evening dress as amusingly as Mr. Armstrong did. Perchance Mr. Bernard

Shaw might have done so, but his cynicism would have marred the

prospect. There was no "pose" in the humor at the Hudson Theater.

The play had the advantage of being well acted. We often complain that

leading actors cannot wear evening dress gracefully. This time they

had to do their worst for it, and were asked to wear it as

ungracefully as they could. They were able to do it. Most of them were

comparatively unknown, but they were none the worse for that. John

Drew or William Faversham or Kyrle Bellew could not possibly have

pilloried evening dress as did the actors in "The Heir to the Hoorah."

"The Firm of Cunningham" succeeded "Mrs. Temple's Telegram," at the

little Madison Square Theater, but did not prove to be a worthy

successor. It was from the pen of Mr. Willis Steell, who rushed in

where angels fear to tread; or, in other words, invented a couple of

complex ladies, and then tried to explain them plausibly. There is no

more difficult task. One lady was a skittish matron, addicted to

betting on the races and to allowing a nice looking boy to kiss her;

the other was a white-muslin girl from Vassar, who fell in love with

that boy at remarkably short range.

It was very unsatisfactory. One woman was a cat, with whom we were

supposed to sympathize; the other had many of the characteristics of a

fool. Why label Vassar for the latter? It was, however, the married

woman who was the "heroine," and a key to her character was never

supplied. I like a key to complex ladies, and am not a bit ashamed to

admit it. I want their motives a-b-c'd for my use, in the case of

plays like "The Firm of Cunningham." When complex ladies figure in

masterpieces, than the key is unnecessary, and what you don't

understand, you can always ascribe to the "psychological."

Miss Hilda Spong, a clever actress who is always miscast and who is

rarely able to display her fine qualities, was this contradictory

"heroine," while Miss Katherine Grey, usually assigned to dark

melodrama, was the white-muslin girl with the Vassar mis-label.

William Lamp, as the boy who kissed, was possibly the best member of

the cast, that also included William Harcourt and Henry Bergman. "The

Firm of Cunningham" scarcely seemed built for "business."