When the long and prosperous run of "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is considered, the conclusion is inevitable that the theatre-going public of this city will bear anything. The three scenes that go to make up this fatiguing representation are utterly void of a single principle of dramatic construction, and are entirely without dramatic incident, if we except the appearance upon the scene of a very "scarlet woman." And that is not exactly the sort of dramatic element which is expected or desired. The feat of memory which the child Elsie Leslie performs is remarkable. But it is a very painful exhibition, for it will inevitably destroy the poor little creature, mentally and physically. To point out all the manifold inconsistencies and absurdities of this nondescript entertainment would take up too much space, and bestow upon it much more advertising than it is worth. To instance a few of them: An American, a middle-aged man, a prosperous grocer, himself brings to the house of a customer a basket of groceries. He is ushered into the sitting-room together with a bootblack, who also calls at the same time; they are received as guests and friends, and are entertained by the infant hero, aged seven years! Later, this same grocer and the bootblack, both being in correspondence with the infant hero, learn that he is threatened with the loss of his title, whereupon they each offer him a partnership in their business. Ultimately, these two go together to England, where they are received as guests by the haughty Earl who is the grandfather of the infant hero. And these things are offered to the public in a perfectly serious manner without any attempt at or any idea of humor. The mounting of the piece—to call it so, for want of a more fitting title—is as tawdry and shallow as the piece itself. The library at Dorincourt Castle is ornamented by cheap tin toys, fastened upon plaques and hung on the walls. These things are supposed to be the armor and trappings of the knights of old who were the ancestry of this great house. This library, which opens out onto a sort of terrace that overlooks a body of water of about the dimensions of Lake Michigan, is lighted by numbers of cheap gas-jets—a manner of illumination unknown in any English country-house, far less an old feudal castle. A number of good actors and actresses are brought on the stage from time to time, but they have nothing whatever to do, consequently they do nothing. They whirl and maunder through three hours of false sentiment and artificial virtue, ringing the changes on the statement that they are "bland, passionate, and deeply religious." They also paint in water-colors, and "of such is the kingdom of heaven." Silly women sit whimpering at it, servile men sympathize with them, newspapers earn their "ads" by their false and fulsome praise, and the box-office flourishes.
The season of opera at the Metropolitan Opera House has been one of the most successful ever known. A concerted attack has been made on German opera by those who prefer the ballet and the spectacular to the pleasures of music. It was suggested that Italian opera be substituted, and it was hinted that there was a company in Rome open to an engagement. The Wagnerites grew furious, and protested. A comparison of the box-office receipts in former seasons was instituted, and the preponderance of popular favor was shown to be always in favor of German opera, and especially of Wagner. That settled it for a time, but a minor dispute arose. During the production of Wagner's masterpieces, like "Rheingold" and "Die Meistersinger," in the scenes which are supposed to take place at night or in the dark, the stage-manager lowered the lights in the house so that the glare should not mar the appropriateness of the scene. This did not at all suit the young ladies who know nothing about music, but simply come to talk about Mrs. Millionaire's ball or to see each other's latest costumes. Their papas among the stockholders were coaxed into ordering the lights to be turned on. Again the Wagnerites protested, and after three nights the management returned to the old way, much to the satisfaction of real lovers of opera.
The production of Halévy's opera "La Juive" for the first time this season was coincident with the reappearance of Frau Lilli Lehmann, who acted and sang the part of Rachel with vigor and precision. Herr Alvary, who consented to take the part of Prince Leopold, with Herr Perotti as Eleazar, and the excellent support of the other singers, made the production the best that has ever been given in New York, and one long to be remembered. Frau Schroeder-Hanfstaengl has returned after an absence of four years, making her reappearance in the modest part of Bertha in "Le Prophète."
Manager Frohman promises us a number of new American plays for next season, which, he says, will be as good as those now produced abroad. Mr. Louis Aldrich, by the way, has been restrained from using the name or the funds of the Actors' Order of Friendship in furtherance of his ungenerous attempt to exclude foreign actors. A sad scene was that of the sale of the late Lester Wallack's stage costumes. Scarcely a dozen of the actor's old friends were present, and the various garments were sold at ridiculously cheap prices, the greater part to dealers in old clothes! Sic transit gloria mundi.
REVIEWS.
The American Commonwealth, by James Bryce (Macmillan & Co.).—The thoughtful citizen of the United States who opens this book from any other motive than mere curiosity will be apt to close it again greatly disappointed. So far as information is concerned, one might as well read a debate of the Senate. If it is from curiosity as to what an Englishman of Professor Bryce's ability and culture may think and say of us that the work is read, then the work will be found of interest. It is so rare for one of Britain's citizens, cultured or uncultured, to care for us, that the novelty alone commands attention. It was surly old Sam Johnson who said to a feminine owner of a parrot, in reply to her query as to whether the loquacious bird did not talk well, "Madam, the wonder is, not that it talks well, but that it talks at all." This great American nation is an object of utter indifference to the people of Europe; and among the so-called upper classes we are under contempt, when noticed, from the rising of the sun to the setting thereof.
Professor Bryce writes of us in a flattering way, but without information. The maze of contradiction that besets him on all sides seems not to have even embarrassed, let alone discouraged, him. Like a locomotive threading its way along a network of rails into a depot, he has his own track and runs smoothly along, as if there were but one, and quite regardless of the many others crossing and recrossing at every rod of progress. Fixing one eye on the central government at Washington and the other on the State governments, he treats us as a people from these two points, and would doubtless be amazed to learn that these political structures not only do not make our government, but are so widely separated from our associations and interests that they might be annihilated to-day without people being aware of their loss, save from the relief of taxation found in their destruction.
One can comprehend the consternation of foreigners at this bold assertion, when we recognize the fact that its avowal will bring forth not only denial, but an expression of disgust from about sixty-five millions of citizens born under and naturalized to this republic of ours. Yet it is truth; and to comprehend it we must remember that a constitution is an agreement or compact, entered into directly or indirectly by the citizens governed, whereby all legislation, executive control, and judicial decisions are to be under the control of, and bound and limited by, certain rules of a general nature clearly stated and set forth in said instrument. Now as the trouble attending constitutional law, as that of every other sort, is not in the law itself, but in its application, the constitution, to be at all available, has to be as simple, general, and limited as possible. The most perfect and practical is a mere declaration of principles that leaves all legislation to the wants, habits, and intelligence of the people. As statutory law is merely public opinion defined and promulgated by a legislature, it follows that the mere declaration of rights found in a charter is continually infringed upon by what may be called the unwritten constitution that grows imperceptibly about us, and is in the end the controlling constitution. Let us give a familiar illustration. There is nothing, for example, in our Constitution that prohibits the people from re-electing a President as often as the people see right to indulge in that process. Yet when ex-President Grant saw fit to demand a third term, he was treated as if he were violating the sacred charter given us by the fathers.
We believe in our Constitution—and go on violating its plainest provisions with utter indifference. We resemble that Southern gentleman who had the Lord's Prayer printed on the head-board of his bed, and who every night and morning rapped on it with his cane to call attention to the ceremony, and said solemnly, "O Lord, them's my sentiments."