OUR THEATRICAL PLAYGROUND.
THE theatrical season in New York opened auspiciously about the first of September, and up to the present time shows no sign of in any way not keeping up to its early promise; and this despite the fact of an exciting presidential campaign, when mass meetings, torch-light processions and brass bands in the streets furnish all the elements of a free show outside the theatres. As a rule, a presidential year—at least the few weeks of the canvass preceding the election—seriously effects the attendance at all places of amusement. The past few weeks, however, seem to prove an exception. And no class of entertainment, so long as it is good, appears to be singled out for preference.
FAREWELL, WALLACK’S!
Colonel McCaull, with “Boccaccio,” easily led the comic opera patronage at Wallack’s. It was the best performance of the opera ever given in the city. Comedy and song are so happily blended in the work that it requires actors and singers to present it properly, and McCaull gave both. “Boccaccio,” by the McCaull Opera Company, will pass into the dramatic annals of this city as the last performance given in Wallack’s. October 6 Wallack’s ceased to exist, and a name which for more than a generation was a household word throughout the country passed away into a memory and becomes a tradition.
MEMORIES OF HOME.
As a contrast to the rollicking fun of comic opera let us see how the Academy of Music is doing with “The Old Homestead.” Here is a medley—it can hardly be called a play—which savors so strongly of country life that one almost feels the breath of the new-mown hay, or the genial warmth of a happy hearthstone while witnessing Den Thompson’s performance. It is a touch of nature, and thousands throng into the Academy to feel its influence.
A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.
When young Sothern, at the Lyceum, came upon the stage as Lord Chumley, an indistinct something or other flashed through the minds of old theatre-goers. It was impossible at first to tell what produced that feeling, but as the play unraveled itself, and Mr. Sothern warmed to his work, it seemed as if the spirit of the elder Sothern animated the younger, and Lord Chumley was a blood relative of the lamented Lord Dundreary. As was the case with Dundreary so it was with Chumley—both sprung into popularity in a night. As in Laura Keene’s, crowds were drawn in days gone by to see the father, so now at the present day throngs fill the pretty Lyceum to look upon the son.