thus proposed was made and it had mutual advantages, but it was more valuable to the Shubert Brothers than to Belasco. Possessed of contracts to “book” the latter’s “attractions” the Shuberts were strengthened in their relations with theatre managers not dominated by the Trust who desired to have those attractions presented in their houses,—and thus they were, in turn, strengthened in dealings with managers of other “attractions.” The Belasco-Shubert alliance lasted for about four years. The time came when Mr. Lee Shubert (who had become the head of the Shubert Company) condescendingly intimated in public that he did not believe that anything could be accomplished by the methods of opposition to theatrical despotism which were long employed by Belasco and by the shrewd, indefatigable, vindictive H. G. Fiske and his intrepid, brilliant, accomplished wife; nevertheless, if it had not been for their opposition, the subjugation of the American Theatre to injurious monopoly would, in all human probability, have been so complete that Mr. Lee Shubert and his associates would never have found an opening through which to break.

S. S. Shubert died, May 12, 1905, in consequence of injuries sustained in a train wreck on the Pennsylvania Railroad, near Lochiel, Pennsylvania, on the 11th. Belasco considers his death “a hard blow” and is “sure he would have occupied a great place in the history of the American Theatre. He had keen business instincts, a lovable nature, and was the soul of honor.” He would have required to possess a more extensive equipment to entitle him to the eminence Belasco believes he would have attained. I had no personal acquaintance with Mr. Shubert: he never did anything of notable importance as a theatrical manager, properly so called. His brother, Mr. Lee Shubert, through the shifts and chances of fortune, at one time almost held the destiny of our Theatre in his hand,—but he is merely a commercial exploiter of the Stage and consequently made nothing of his opportunity.

Belasco was to have accompanied S. S. Shubert on the journey which proved his last and, had he done so, might have perished with him. “I have had three such ‘close calls,’” he has said to me: “Once, when I was a lad, I gave up an excursion trip on the Sacramento River to please my mother,—and the excursion boat was blown up soon after she left the dock. The second was when, at the last minute, I cancelled a trip to Cincinnati, with Charles Frohman. He took a secretary with him, the train was wrecked, and the secretary, sitting beside him where I would have been, was killed. The third was the trip with ‘Sam’ Shubert. We were to have gone to Pittsburgh together, on business connected with the Duquesne Theatre there, which, with the Shuberts, I took over and which was renamed the Belasco. If I had gone I am sure that I should have been killed in the wreck.” It is probable that he would have been: the train on which Shubert travelled to his death “side-swiped” a freight train, loaded with dynamite: many lives were lost.

THE ADVENT OF FRANCES STARR.—BELASCO’S “THE ROSE OF THE RANCHO.”

Frances Starr was born at Albany, New York, June 6, 1880, and made her first appearance on the stage as Lucy Dorrison, in Robertson’s “Home,” with a stock company, in that city, under the management of the late Frederic Bond. During the next six years she gained experience in various stock companies,—at the Murray Hill Theatre, New York; in San Francisco, in Boston, and at Proctor’s 125th Street Theatre, New York,—and, February 12, 1906, she appeared, in association with Charles Richman, as Nell Colfax, in “Gallops,”—a weak echo of Boucicault’s horse-racing plays of “The Flying Scud” and “The Jilt.” Belasco first saw her when she was acting at the Murray Hill, and his attention was again called to her by his brother Frederick, who, in 1905, wrote to him from San Francisco, praising her in high terms. Writing about Miss Starr, Belasco has given this account of her employment by him—certainly the most fortunate event of her life:

The first play in which Belasco presented Miss Starr as a leading performer, heading an important theatrical company—less than six months after he had seen her in “Gallops”—was “The Rose of the Rancho.” This piece is based on an earlier one, by Richard Walton Tully, called “Juanita,” which had been produced in Los Angeles with the excellent actor John H. Gilmour in the principal male part. Mr. Tully’s play was verbose, diffuse, and coarse in texture. Belasco, after once rejecting it, being in urgent need of a vehicle for Miss Starr, read it again and agreed to “accept it, provided I might have the privilege of rewriting it.” This “privilege” Belasco has exercised in many instances—to his loss and the immense advantage of various inconsequential and ingrateful amateurs of dramatic authorship. His stipulation was acceded to by Mr. Tully, and Belasco, working as usual under the stress of haste and the distraction of many projects, revised, curtailed, amended, and reconstructed “Juanita,” which, in its final form as “The Rose

of the Rancho,” gained abundant success. It was first acted, under that name, at the Majestic Theatre, Boston, November 12, 1906, and was brought out in New York, at the Belasco Theatre, November 27: it held the stage there until June 29, 1907.

There is, in this play, a glance at a disgraceful episode in American history,—the technically legal, but outrageously unjust and brutally tyrannical, seizure of the estates of Spaniards in California, after the Mexican War; but the purpose was not so much to relumine a remote and half-forgotten rascality as to display the incidents of a romantic love story associated with the nefarious proceedings of that distressful and turbulent time and place. That purpose Belasco accomplished in pictorial settings of uncommon beauty. The scenery of Southern California is inexpressibly charming, because it combines tranquil loveliness with awful grandeur and is everywhere invested with poetic mystery. The stupendous and austere mountains, the boundless, lonely plains, the balmy orange groves, the graceful palm trees, the fragrant magnolias, the abundance of wild flowers, the glorious blue skies and the pure, sweet air,—these and many other beauties unite to make that region a paradise. It is in Southern California that the Rose of the Rancho blooms, and Belasco, who knows and loves that country well, made his stage a garden of luxury and a dream of splendor to convey that charm—presenting a series of pictures which have never been excelled and seldom equalled. The investiture of this play, indeed, blending old Spanish architecture with a semi-tropical wealth of natural beauty, was literally magnificent and considerably excelled the worth of the play itself. This is a synopsis[2] of that fabric,—from which it will be seen that the theme is, to some extent, the same as that treated in Helen Hunt Jackson’s prolix and tedious novel of “Ramona”:

The scene is laid amid the sleepy, picturesque Spanish missions of Southern California. The plot deals with the great tragedy that underlies California history—the taking of the Spanish inhabitants’ homes by land-jumping Americans. The Rose of the Rancho is Juanita, the youngest daughter of the Castro family. Through pride and indolence the Castros have neglected to make their property secure to them by filing an entry with the American land agent, and things have come to a serious pass with them. One of the most notorious land-jumpers in the state, Kinkaid, of Beaver, Neb., has come to San Juan, with his outfit, to take the whole valley. At the same time another American has appeared on the scene,—Mr. Kearney, of Washington,—a government agent sent to investigate the land disputes.

Previous to the rising of the curtain upon the beautiful mission garden the latter has met and fallen in love with the fascinating Juanita. Because of enmity toward all gringoes she refuses to treat him civilly, but she meets him by accident every day, unknown to her mother, who arranges (according to the custom) that Juanita shall marry a young Spanish spark, from Monterey—Don Luis de la Torre. The girl’s father was an American, and there begins a struggle between her loyalty to her mother, her Spanish relatives and friends, on the one side, and the young American who comes with the offer of his love and aid, on the other. Juanita, given her first kiss, lets the blood of her father direct her actions. She gives the data necessary for a registration to Kearney, who has no authority to interfere with Kinkaid, but who sends his friend, Lieutenant Larkin, to Monterey to make the entry for the Castros. Kearney remains behind to delay Kinkaid as long as he can. Larkin agrees to bring back the state militia for Kearney’s protection. Meanwhile, the mother has learned that her daughter has tossed a geranium to a gringo (signifying, “I love you”), and Juanita is locked in her room.

The Second Act takes place in the patio-court of the old Castro ranch house. In spite of the danger that threatens, the mother is giving the engagement party she has planned. Juanita’s friends are present. There are Spanish dances and the throwing of cascarones, and Don Luis appears to claim his bride. Juanita is defiant, and when they are about to betroth her she declares herself to be a gringo and the promised wife of a gringo. For this her mother disowns her, and is about to turn her out of the house, when Kinkaid and his men attack it and break in, and Juanita is thunderstruck to find the man she has trusted among them. The crowd of riffraff insult the women, who are protected by Kearney. He, however, must pretend that he is upon Kinkaid’s side. Juanita appeals to him, and is rebuffed. Kinkaid agrees to wait until dawn before taking possession—thereby giving Kearney the time desired. The latter gets away from the land-jumper and finds Juanita to explain. She lashes him with her tongue for his betrayal of her people, and when he tries to make her listen she strikes him. Nothing daunted, he forces her to listen to his explanation. She tells him that she thinks he is a liar, but—she will wait till morning to see if the militia comes.

The Third Act takes place upon the roof of the ranch house. Dawn is coming, and no help has arrived. Kearney makes Kinkaid a prisoner as a hostage to protect the women. Unfortunately, Don Luis, jealous of the American lover of Juanita, in an effort to compel him to fight a duel, lets Kinkaid go. The latter joins his men and an attack is imminent. The old Franciscan, Father Antonio, assembles “his children” in prayer for delivery, the sunrise hymn of the Californians. This delivery comes in the shape of the long-awaited militia from Monterey. The rancho is saved, but the mother will not see her daughter go to an American. She forces her daughter to choose, and this she does—in favor of the gringo.

That is a simple, almost trite, story; but Belasco contrived to tell it in action more than in words, and his telling of it proceeds from one sensation to another with cumulative effect. Divested of all outward flourishes, it is seen to be the portrayal of a conflict between virtue, animated by love, and villany, impelled by cupidity and brutal license. The vulgarian would seize the estate of the old Spanish family. The hero, who loves its young mistress, would save it for her; and in order to accomplish that object he is compelled to pretend fraternity with her oppressor,—for which reason she temporarily mistrusts him; but his purpose is accomplished, his fidelity is proved, and his love is rewarded. In all this, happily, there is no examination of the remote causes of the universal passion; no philosophic essay on masculine strength as opposed to feminine weakness; no treatise on elective affinities. The play, in short, is an old-fashioned melodrama in a new-fashioned dress; one of those plays that the spectator observes with an interested desire to ascertain how it will turn out. No new type of character is presented, nor is a special attempt made to variegate the old types. Kearney, of Washington, is the handsome, gallant, expeditious young cavalier who has loved and rescued the endangered maiden in a hundred plays of the past. Kinkaid, of Beaver, is the same old blackguard and bully who seems victorious for a moment, but is always finally discomfited, in the chronic story of the Far West. Don Luis is the debonair but disappointed suitor, from whom the Bride of Netherby always rides away. Father Antonio is the good and gentle priest who cheers the drooping spirit and bestows ecclesiastical benediction. The only persons who savor of exceptional quality are Señora Kenton and her daughter Juanita, the Rose,—the one a stern and formidable woman, vital with Spanish hatred of the invading American; the other, a passionate, capricious, wilful girl, who can be sweet and tender, but who is customarily piquant, independent, and resolute in her own course: characters strongly reminiscent of the matron and the heroine in “Ramona.” But, all the same, the old tale of strength protecting weakness, stratagem defeating duplicity, and love triumphant over hate, pleased, as it always has pleased, and as it always will continue to please—“till all the seas run dry.” Although, intrinsically, not exceptional as a work of dramatic art, “The Rose of the Rancho” has positive and abundant felicity of theatrical merit, imparted by the skilful hand of Belasco, and the production of it was worthy of his brightest fame. This was the original cast of it:

Miss Starr, in her performance of Juanita, manifested impetuosity of temperament combined with charm of personality, and by her arch behavior as a coquette, together with the vigor and sparkle of her demeanor as a wounded, doubting, resentful, and angry young woman, gained and merited general admiration.—A significant thought as to expedition

and indolence in the fibre of contrasted races is conveyed in two casual remarks in this play: “Civilization,” says the “land-jumper,” Kinkaid, with blatant vulgarity of manner, when announcing his purpose of legalized robbery, “must progress”; and when it is found that certain muskets which have been collected for use in defending the Castro ranch are useless because of lack of powder, the Spanish cavalier is heard to murmur: “I meant to have got that powder to-morrow.” Charles Richman, as the intrepid Kearney, and John W. Cope, as the sinister Kinkaid, gave performances of sterling merit, because true to life and symmetrical and fluent in expression,—the one presenting, in a notably earnest spirit, a sonsy, healthful, interesting, thoroughly good fellow: the other assuming, in a painfully natural way, the obnoxious characteristics,—including a repulsive personal appearance,—commonly, and correctly, ascribed to the Western breed of ruffian.

Belasco has, in drama, made use of the element of natural accessories,—meaning peculiarities of climate, cloud, sunshine, rain, storm, calm, the sound of the sea, the ripple of leaves in the wind, the swirl of dust, the gentle falling of flower petals, the incessant variations of light according to place and time, whether morning or evening, noonday or midnight, and so following,—with an unerring skill akin to that of Wilkie Collins in the writing of fiction. In “The Rose of the Rancho” he took almost unparalleled pains to render his effects perfect. Writing of this work, he has recorded:

A NEW PROJECT:—THE SECOND BELASCO THEATRE.

Although Belasco held the Belasco Theatre under a lease with an option of renewal, he was at all times during the early years of his theatre management conscious of a certain weakness in his position: an unforeseen disaster—a fire, for instance,—might leave him with many theatrical enterprises and no metropolitan theatre to present them in. “Besides,” he writes to me: “not only was I always confronted by the fact that the lease of my Forty-second Street house might not be renewed, but also it was natural that I should desire to have a theatre all my own, in the making of which I could carry out, fully, my ideas of stage construction, lighting, and seating.” The result of this desire and of his wary vigilance to maintain managerial freedom is the second Belasco Theatre (which originally was named David Belasco’s Stuyvesant Theatre), which was built by Meyer R. Bimberg (18—- 1908), on designs made by Belasco and under his personal superintendence. The cornerstone of that theatre was laid on December 5, 1906. David Warfield came from Philadelphia, where he was acting, to participate; Miss Bates came from Boston; Miss Starr was at the time filling her first engagement in New York in “The Rose of the Rancho.” Belasco, those players, his business associates, and a numerous company of friends gathered round the site of the new theatre. Miss Starr deposited in a niche beneath the bed of the cornerstone a copper casket containing various records and programmes of Belasco’s productions, photographs of himself and of the chief players then appearing under his direction, and a miscellaneous assortment of souvenirs, cards, and “good luck pieces” contributed by various friends. Miss Bates then spread the mortar upon which the stone was to be laid and uttered this touching sentiment as she did so: “Here’s hoping that Mr. Belasco will stick to all of us, and we and all his friends will stick to Mr. Belasco, as this mortar will eternally stick to this stone.”

The cornerstone was then swung into place, settled, and declared to be “well and truly laid,” whereupon Belasco’s daughters, Reina and Augusta, each broke a bottle of champagne against it, saying, in unison, “David Belasco’s Stuyvesant Theatre.” The dramatist Bronson Howard (who had risen from a sick-bed to attend this ceremony) then spoke, saying:

Writing of this occasion and of his new theatre, Belasco says:

The second Belasco Theatre (originally called David Belasco’s Stuyvesant Theatre, by which name it was known until the fall of 1910) stands on the north side of West Forty-fourth Street, between Broadway and Sixth Avenue, on lots Nos. 111 to 121, inclusive. The site has a front of 105 feet and a depth of 100 feet. The building is of red brick and white stone, simple and graceful, in the style of architecture denominated as Colonial. It was, originally, three stories high, with a rectangular, tower-like eminence at the southwest corner. The entrance from the street is into a small lobby, at the right of which are large swinging doors opening into a clear space which extends, behind the orchestra seats, parallel with Forty-fourth Street, from side to side of the auditorium. In this playhouse,

as in the first Belasco Theatre, there is a handsome screen of carved wood and crystal glass at the rear of the orchestra, which protects the audience from drafts of air. The orchestra and balcony chairs are of heavy wood, upholstered in rich, dark brown leather, the back of each chair being embossed with the emblematic bee. The decoration of the interior is opulent and dark in tone,—deep browns, blues, and greens with dull amber and orange being the prevailing colors. There is a large painting above the proscenium opening and on either side are several mural paintings, of various sizes, with here and there a rich tapestry hanging. The groups and figures in these paintings are symbolical,—Music, Grief, Tranquillity, Allurement, Blind Love, Poetry, and the like being depicted. The ceiling is raftered into twenty-two panels, which are set with rich-colored stained glass and illumined from above. Each panel contains two shields, with heraldic mantling,—among the coats-of-arms displayed being those of Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, Racine, Molière, Goldsmith, Sheridan, and Tennyson. The seating capacity of the theatre is now (1917) about 1,000 persons,—430 on the orchestra floor, 320 in the balcony, and 240 in the gallery. There are no supporting pillars in the auditorium, the balcony and gallery being constructed on cantilevers, so that an unobstructed view of the stage is afforded from every part of it.

The stage was carefully designed with the purpose of facilitating in every possible way the setting and shifting of scenery. It is eighty feet wide and twenty-seven feet from the curtain-line to the back-wall. The proscenium opening is thirty-two feet wide and thirty feet high. The “gridiron” is seventy-six feet above the stage; the fly galleries, of which there are two, one on each side of the stage and thirty feet above it, have forty-five feet of clear space between them. In recent years an adjustable apron, five feet wide, has been constructed in front of the curtain-line, covering the musicians’ pit. The stage can be opened at any desired spot, and the centre of it is an elevator-trap, ten feet from front to back and twenty feet long. Upon this trap the paraphernalia of an entire scene can be lowered to, or raised from, the level of a cellar floor, thirty feet below the stage.

The original cost of this theatre, including the land upon which it stands, was more than $750,000, and various alterations and improvements made in it down to the present time (1917) have increased the total investment to nearly $1,000,000. In the summer of 1909 a one-story and mezzanine addition was built upon the roof of the Stuyvesant, in which Belasco has made his studio,—a strange, romantic place in which he has assembled priceless objects of art and antiquarianism. That studio (an adequate description of which would necessitate weeks of examination and would, alone, fill a large volume, and which, here, can be given only passing notice) is entered by a narrow, low, heavy-latticed door from the business offices of the Belasco Company. The first room is a small, low-roofed one, in itself somewhat suggestive of an old cathedral crypt. Along the walls are ranged shelved cases containing a wondrous collection of specimens of precious glass, the most recently made piece of which is more than eighty years old. A sort of alcove opens from this room, at the right side, which is stored with scores of relics associated with that arch-villain the great Napoleon,—a collection which includes a lock of his hair, cut from his head after death, and in which Belasco takes special pride and joy. Beyond the entrance room is a larger one; beyond that are low, dim passages; a library with stairs to a gallery; a dining-room; an odd little bedroom, exquisitely furnished in Japanese style,—with a miniature Japanese garden built outside its window,—and luxurious facilities for bathing. These passages, rooms, and stairs,—ceilinged with multi-colored banners, carpeted with soft, rich rugs, and almost everywhere lined with shelf on shelf of books,—are somewhat maze-like to a stranger, and in them is gathered a vast, confusing medley of collectors’ treasures: here, a sinister, black-steel armor; there, a stand of French halberds; beneath that old table, an unmatchable set of rapiers; upon this one, nearly twoscore different styles of dagger; yonder, a huge carved wooden chest, blackened with age and stuffed with antique velours; against it, a great two-handed sword,—“such a blade as old Charles Martel might have wielded, when he drove the Saracen from France”; across that opening, an antique wooden window-lattice, with heavy shutters, taken from an English house built more than 700 years ago; beside it, a chair once used by England’s King Henry the Eighth; against this wall, a stone mantel brought from Italy, with a hearth made of tiles stolen by slaves from the Alhambra. In the walls are many odd nooks and hidden cupboards, which open by the release of secret springs,—in which, when illumined by small, concealed lamps, are revealed collections of jewelled rosaries; or of crucifixes wrought in ivory, ebony, and iron; or of specimens of the potter’s art; or of trinkets once worn or owned by members of the gentle Borgia Family. The stranger, wandering through this reclusive domain,—into which few strangers ever are permitted to penetrate,—opening low Gothic doors, will blunder into angular hutches or long, low tunnels filled with shelves and cases of rare pamphlets and old books; will pause with awe before a superb window of purple stained glass; or gaze with wonder on a massive globe suspended in a well over which a translucent canopy is so arranged that it takes and intensifies all the changing colors of the covering heavens; or will come with startled delight upon a grot in which a small fountain of crystal water flings its spray over a little pool half-filled with violets, sweetpeas, and full-blown roses.

Belasco, unlike many other collectors, has an intimate personal knowledge of every article in his collection; can recall at once where, when, and how each was acquired; and, notwithstanding the number and seeming confusion of the different pieces, knows exactly where each one is placed and instantly perceives and vituperatively denounces any disarrangement of them such as occasionally is caused by members of that pestiferous sisterhood which plies the duster and the brush without sense of the sacredness of an antiquarian’s sweet disorder,—a sisterhood which has stirred up consternation and wrath since long before Mr. Oldbuck’s time. His writing is done there among his treasured collections, now in one corner, now in another, upon a small, battered, baize-covered cutting-table, such as ladies use for sewing, which he carries about from place to place as the fancy suits him. And there, also, his principal recreation is found when, wearied by labor or oppressed by care, he turns to contemplation and enjoyment of the heaped-up beauty which he has gathered about him.

IN THE MATTER OF STAGE LIGHTING.

A much needed addition to the technical literature of the Theatre is a comprehensive, authoritative, and just account of the origin and development of modern stage mechanism and of the art of stage lighting. The pioneer achievements of Edwin Booth, at Booth’s Theatre (opened, February, 1869), and of James Steele Mackaye and Augustin Daly are, as a rule, blandly ignored in writing on those subjects, and the movement for “Stage Reform” which began in Austria in 1879-’80 is taken as the starting-point. If ever such an account is written, laborious experiments and fine achievements by David Belasco, especially in the latter field, will, of necessity, occupy a conspicuous place in it. His active practical interest in the problems of stage lighting began as early as 1876 and it has not abated. The first attempt in America to use electric light for stage illumination,—at least, the first attempt of which I have found a record,—was made at the California Theatre, San Francisco, February 21 to 28, 1879. Belasco was there at that time and carefully observed the experiment, which was not notably successful.[3] From 1879 to 1902 he closely studied all methods of lighting and experimented much: since 1902, when he opened his first theatre and obtained satisfactory facilities for the work, his experimentation in that field has been incessant. The lighting system at the Stuyvesant Theatre was designed by Belasco in collaboration with his chief electrician, Mr. Louis Hartman, and was installed under their supervision. When that theatre was opened, the lamps of the footlights on the stage, and also those in each of the overhead “border light strips,” were arranged in seven sections, each section connected upon separate resistance, in order that any desired part of the stage or any figure or group of figures might be illumined or shadowed as desired. There were five sets of the border lights, with 270 lamps in each; there were eighty-eight connection pockets in the fly galleries and upon the stage through which large or small “bunch lights” could be connected as required; the switchboard (one of the largest, if not the largest, then in use in an American theatre) was equipped with seventy-five dimmers, in order that the lights should be under perfect control. Since the opening, in 1907, the lighting system has repeatedly been altered and improved. The most radical change is one made about two years ago [1917], whereby footlights are entirely dispensed with. The objection to footlights is, of course, an upward thrown shadow: this, however, can be satisfactorily dealt with, and, in my judgment, it is seldom if ever advantageous wholly to discard them. Belasco, however, thinks otherwise: his productions are the only ones made without footlights, which I have seen, in which the absence of those lights is adequately compensated. In his present theatre there is a contrivance, placed in the front of the first balcony, which, while the curtain is down, appears to be an ornamental glass panel about six feet long. When the curtain is raised, however, shutters in the front of that panel are opened by an electrical device operated at the switchboard on the stage, and a singular bright light, which is transmitted without casting perceptible rays, is diffused upon the stage, bringing the

actors into clear vision.—It is not practicable to pursue this subject further in this place; but readers will, perhaps, realize the importance Belasco attaches to the art of lighting as an adjunct to acting and the care he lavishes upon it when they are informed that the experimental workshop in his theatre is operated all the year round and that in many instances the expense of his light rehearsals alone has exceeded the total of all other costs of production. Perhaps the most perfect example of stage lighting ever exhibited was provided in Belasco’s presentment of “The Return of Peter Grimm,”—and that was the result of nine and a half months of persistent experimentation. Dilating on this subject, Belasco has said with justified wrath:

OPENING OF BELASCO’S STUYVESANT THEATRE:—“A GRAND ARMY MAN.”

Belasco opened his Stuyvesant Theatre, October 16, 1907, with a play entitled “A Grand Army Man,” written by himself in collaboration with Miss Pauline Phelps and Miss Marion Short,—that is, rewritten and made practical by Belasco, working on the basis of an amateur essay in dramatic authorship provided by those ladies. That play was first acted on any stage at the Hyperion Theatre, New Haven, Connecticut, September 23, the same year. It presents neither surprising ingenuity of construction nor uncommon felicity of style, but it tells a plain story in a plain way. The chord that is struck in it is that of romantic, almost paternal, altogether manly and beautiful affection. As a work of dramatic art it appertains to the class of comedies represented by such plays as “Grandfather Whitehead,” “The Porter’s Knot,” and “The Chimney Corner,”—plays in which the theme involves unselfish love and the sentiments and emotions that cling to the idea of Home. In that respect it reverts to a style of drama once, fortunately, dominant—at a time when the American Stage was illumined and adorned by such actors as Henry Placide, John Gilbert, John Nickinson, Charles W. Couldock, William Warren, and Mark Smith. The authors of it provided Warfield with a vehicle of dramatic expression that exactly conformed to the bent of his mind. The plot is simple, but by reason of being natural and being fraught with true, as opposed to false, emotion, its simplicity nowhere declines into insipid commonplace. The chief character, Wes’ Bigelow, is a veteran of the Grand Army of the Republic. He has never married. In youth he has loved a girl, but has not won her, and she has become the wife of one of his comrades. Years have passed, and the American Civil War has occurred. That comrade has been slain in battle. The widow has died: but she has left a child, that comrade’s boy, and Bigelow has adopted and reared him. The substance of the play is his experience with the fortunes of that ward.

It happens sometimes that a man whom a girl has rejected, and who remains unmarried because of his absorbing love for her, will fix his affection on her child,—she having married a more favored suitor and produced a family,—and will love that child as if it were his own. That happens to Bigelow. The son of his loved and lost idol is the light of his eyes and the joy of his heart. There is no labor that he will not do and no sacrifice that he will not make for the lad, of whom he ardently prophesies success and honor. The boy, Robert, has been intrusted with money, the property of the Grand Army veterans, and, instead of placing it in the bank, as directed to do, he has used it in speculation, and lost it. When the knowledge of that fault comes to the veteran he is, at first, stunned by it; then enraged; and then broken by the conflict between the sense of shame and the struggle of affection. He tries to thrash the boy with a horse-whip, but in that manifestation of wrath he fails: his cherished pet cannot have done wrong; has only erred through accident; can surely be redeemed; must, of course, make amends,—and all will be well. The case comes to trial, before a judge who, privately, is hostile to Bigelow, and measures are taken to insure conviction. The veteran offers to replace the money that has been taken by his ward,—supposing that the complaint will then be dismissed. That money he has obtained by sale of his personal effects, and also by means of a mortgage imposed on his farm. The old soldier makes an impassioned, pathetic appeal to the court, but the hostile magistrate cannot be appeased. Robert is convicted and is sent to prison for one year. A little time passes, and Robert’s sweetheart, the daughter of that malicious judge, leaves her father’s abode and seeks refuge with Bigelow and the kind old woman who keeps house for him. Robert is pardoned, at the intercession of the veteran’s military comrades, and he comes back, to his guardian and his love, on New Year’s Day.

Nothing could be more simple than that unpretentious idyl of Home. It is in situations of simplicity, however, that an actor is subjected to the most severe tests of his inherent power, his fibre of character, his knowledge of the human heart, his store of experience, his resources of feeling, and his artistic faculty of expression. Warfield endured that test, allowing the torrent of feeling to precipitate itself without apparent restraint, and, at the same time, controlling and guiding it. Such artistic growth he had evinced in his impersonation of the Music Master, and he evinced it even more effectively in his assumption of the Grand Army Man,—going to Nature for his impulse and obeying a right instinct of Art in his direction of it. In the portrayal of the noble, sweet-tempered, yet fiery old soldier he aimed especially at self-effacement, at abnegation of every motive or trait of selfishness. On finding that his boy loves the daughter of his enemy, and is by her beloved, the veteran is, almost at once, disposed to placate that enemy and favor those young lovers. There is, to be sure, a little reluctance, a little struggle in his mind; but that is soon over. The actor denoted that struggle and that surrender in a lovely spirit. In the tempestuous scene of Bigelow’s horrified consternation, the agonized conflict between anger and love, when the misconduct of the boy is exposed and confessed, and the old man, after trying to beat him as a felon, clasps him to his heart as only the victim of an unfortunate, venial error, the anguish and the passionate affection of a strong, even splendid, nature were expressed with cogent force. The appeal spoken in the courtroom,—an outburst of honest, simple, rugged eloquence, all the more fervid and poignant because unskilled and fettered,—had the authentic note of heartfelt emotion. In circumstances those situations, which are the pivotal points of the play, recall certain supreme effects in “Olivia” and “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” but Warfield’s histrionic treatment of those situations was fresh and his achievement in them displayed him as an actor to whom the realm of pathos is widely open and who can move with a sure step in the labyrinth of the domestic emotions,—one of the most perplexing fields with which dramatic art is concerned. All observers know how easy it is, in treatment of themes of the fireside, the family, the home, to lapse into tameness. An actor must possess an ardent and beautiful spirit, and must be greatly in earnest, who can sustain such themes and invest them with the glow of passionate vitality. Some of the best of the managers and actors of an earlier, and as I believe in many ways a more fortunate, generation might well have been proud of placing before the public such a play and such an impersonation as Belasco and Warfield provided in “A Grand Army Man,”—a play and an impersonation instinct with fidelity to common life and yet far removed from commonplace. Warfield, as a player, possesses in a marked degree the charm ascribed to John Bannistere (one of the greatest serio-comic actors in theatrical annals), that he wins you immediately by seeming to care nothing about you. His identification with the character of Bigelow was absolute and he never, for even a moment, lapsed out of it. It had been long since such complete absorption, such living inside of a fancied identity, had been seen on the stage. The blending of humor and pathos was exceedingly fine, and it touched the heart even while it brought a smile to the lips.—“A Grand Army Man,” together with “The Music Master,” was acted at the Stuyvesant Theatre until May 2, 1908, when Warfield’s season closed. On the opening night Belasco, called upon the stage by a brilliant and enthusiastic audience, made a brief speech, saying: