godas of ebony and cabinets of ivory; sculptured monsters, grinning and leering on chimney-pieces, in front of beautifully figured hand-screens; porcelain dinner-sets, gleaming behind the glass doors of mahogany buffets; large screens, in corners, covered with tense silk and embroidered with mandarins and dragons. These things were scattered all over the house, and they gave Eugenia a pretext for a complete domiciliary visit. She liked it, she enjoyed it; she thought it a very nice place. It had a mixture of the homely and the liberal, and though it was almost a museum the large, little-used rooms were as fresh and clean as a well-kept dairy. Lizzie Acton told her that she dusted all the pagodas and other curiosities every day with her own hands; and the baroness answered that she was evidently a household fairy. Lizzie had not at all the look of a young lady who dusted things; she wore such pretty dresses and had such delicate fingers that it was difficult to imagine her immersed in sordid cares. She had come to meet Madame Münster on her arrival, but she had said nothing, or almost nothing, and the baroness had again reflected-she had had occasion to do so before-that American girls had no manners. She disliked this little American girl, and she was quite prepared to learn that she had failed to commend herself to Miss Acton. Lizzie struck her as positive and explicit almost to pertness; and the idea of her combining the apparent incongruities of a taste for housework and the wearing of fresh, Parisian-looking dresses suggested the possession of a dangerous energy. It was a source of irritation to the baroness that in this country it should seem to matter whether a little girl were a little less or a little more of a nonentity; for Eugenia had hitherto been conscious of no moral pressure as regards the appreciation of diminutive virgins. It was perhaps an indication of Lizzie's pertness that she very soon retired, and left the baroness on her brother's hands. Acton talked a great deal about his chinoiseries; he knew a good deal about porcelain and bric-a-brac. The baron

ess, in her progress through the house, made, as it were, a great many stations. She sat down every where, confessed to being a little tired, and asked about the various objects with a curious mixture of alertness and inattention. If there had been any one to say it to she would have declared that she was positively in love with her host; but she could hardly make this declaration-even in the strictest confidence- to Acton himself. It gave her, nevertheless, a pleasure that had some of the charm of unwontedness to feel, with that admirable keenness with which she was capable of feeling things, that he had a disposition without any edges; that even his humorous irony always expanded toward the point. One's impression of his honesty was almost like carrying a bunch of flowers; the perfume was most agreeable, but they were, occasionally an inconvenience. One could trust him, at any rate, round all the corners of the world; and, withal, he was not absolutely simple, which would have been excess; he was only relatively simple, which was quite enough for the bar

oness.

Lizzie reappeared to say that her mother would now be happy to receive Madame Münster; and the baroness followed her to Mrs. Acton's apartment. Eugenia reflected, as she went, that it was not the affectation of impertinence that made her dislike this young lady, for on that ground she could easily have beaten her. It was not an aspiration on the girl's part to rivalry, but a kind of laughing, childishly-mocking indifference to the results of comparison. Mrs. Acton was an emaciated, sweet-faced woman of five and fifty, sitting with pillows behind her, and looking out on a clump of hemlocks. She was very modest, very timid, and very ill; she made Eugenia feel grateful that she herself was not like that, neither so ill, nor, possibly, so modest. On a chair, beside her, lay a volume of Emerson's Essays. It was a great occasion for poor Mrs. Acton, in her helpless condition, to be confronted with a clever foreign lady, who had more manner than any lady any dozen ladies that she had ever seen.

"I have heard a great deal about you," she said, softly, to the baroness. "From your son, eh?" Eugenia asked. "He has talked to me immensely of you. Oh, he talks of you as you would like," the baroness declared; " as such a son must talk of such a mother!"

Mrs. Acton sat gazing; this was part of Madame Münster's "manner." But Robert Acton was gazing too, in vivid consciousness that he had barely mentioned his mother to their brilliant guest. He never talked of this still maternal presence, a presence refined to such delicacy that it had almost resolved itself, with him, simply into the subjective emotion of gratitude. And Acton rarely talked of his emotions. The baroness turned her smile toward him, and she instantly felt that she had been observed to be fibbing. She had struck a false note. But who were these people to whom such fibbing was not pleasing? If they were

WHILE friends of the drama are complaining that the English stage, if not really sunken, has at least ceased to keep pace with the progress made in other countries, it will be found interesting to turn our attention to a drama of which but little is practically known, either in England or in America. Although the Germans are far from satisfied with their theatre, still, both in actual condition and in the spirit pervading it, it is to be regarded as an ideal for us while ours remains in its present state.

In Germany the theatres may be divided into three classes: the Hof, or court theatres; the Stadt, or city theatres; and the theatres which are maintained entirely by private enterprise. The system of court theatres is different from that of France, where the houses are the property of the state, but are VOL. XLII.NO. 250.

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leased to their managers under certain conditions, the manager receiving a subsidy greater or less according to circumstances. The court theatres in Germany are directly controlled, as well as owned, by the government, and are under the direction of an inspector appointed by the monarch. Nearly every one of the German states has its court theatre. Prussia has five, the opera-house and the play-house (Schauspielhaus) in Berlin, and the theatres in the annexed capitals, Hanover, Cassel, and Wiesbaden ; Bavaria has three in Munich; Saxony, two in Dresden; and Baden, one each in Carlsruhe, Mannheim, and Baden-Baden. The ruling princes generally take special pride in their theatres, and as the sums expended on them from this source render them in a measure independent of public support, the management is en

abled to maintain a high standard, while at the same time it endeavors to pursue such a course as will sustain the public interest and make the box-office receipts as large as possible. This is, however, a secondary consideration, and as the court theatres are patronized chiefly by the cultivated classes it is natural that productions of the higher order should draw the largest houses. Owing to the number of the court theatres their influence is powerful, and makes itself strongly felt in the other theatres of the country.

Occupying a middle place between the court and the private theatres come the Stadt theatres of the great commercial cities like Hamburg, Leipzig, Cologne, and Bremen. The theatres are owned by the city, and are either managed by a director appointed by the authorities, or, as is more usually the case, leased for a nominal sum to a manager, under certain restrictions as to the standard to be maintained in the quality of the performances, and in the acting, prices of admission, subscriptions, etc. The character of these city theatres is very much the same as that of the court theatres, and they have also a most cultivated public, although, very naturally, hardly so aristocratic as with the former. But no theatres make a better showing for the money expended than do these: for while they have no state treasury to look to for relief in case of a deficiency, they have a most exacting and critical public, hard to please, but quick to recognize when it is well served; and the manager, who is financially interested, perceives the necessity, as well as the advantage, of making every mark expended go as far as possible. On the other side, there is apt to be extravagance of expenditure at the court theatres, often a result of favoritism, as in the case of salaries; a handsome young actress, occupying in reality a subordinate position, may perhaps be found standing higher on the pay-list than some prominent and highly talented member of the company.

The theatres which have no connection with the state or city correspond to the theatres of England and America,

and like them are of all grades, from the Stadt Theatre in Vienna, the Residenz Theatre in Berlin, and the Thalia Theatre in Hamburg, down to the cheap and unpretending establishments in the outskirts, where the public sits and sips its beer while indifferent actors present some roaring farce, or perhaps murder their way through a classic tragedy.

A description of some prominent theatre will probably give a better idea of the characteristic features of the German stage than much generalizing; such an example may be found in Leipzig's Stadt Theatre. In situation and architecture it is one of the most imposing and beautiful theatres in the world, although many others are built of finer materials and bear the evidence of having cost immense sums of money. Built in a remarkably classic Renaissance style, it shows a grand dignity of form, set off with exquisite grace of simple adornment, and a most perfect symmetry in its lines and proportions. It stands facing the great Augustus Platz, a grand public square of several acres, devoted to military parades and public displays. On both sides of the theatre are broad streets, and in its rear is the park of the public promenade surrounding the inner city. A massive stone terrace, where open-air concerts are given in the summer, overlooks a charming little lake. The interior is free from all florid ornamentation, and is comfortable, well ventilated, simple and pure in style, with a quiet elegance in its tasteful richness of effect. Its cost in 1868 was about six hundred thousand dollars, although now it could hardly be built for three times that sum. This theatre, together with the old Stadt Theatre, a quaint structure rich in its historical associations, is leased, under certain conditions, to a director for thirty thousand marks, or about seventy-five hundred dollars, a year; and each of the three directors who have been in charge since the new theatre was built has retired with ample fortunes, notwithstanding they have been obliged to maintain a first-class drama and opera, and the scale of prices which is set by the city authorities, and which

is alike for both opera and drama, is remarkably low even for Germany. The very best seats in the house cost only a dollar, and the seats in the upper gallery cost twelve and eighteen cents. The parquet seats, which are as pleasant and comfortable as any in the house, cost sixty cents, and students have places in the parterre, just in the rear of the parquet, for eighteen cents. (In nearly all the university cities students have special privileges at the places of amusement. In Berlin they are remarkably favored, and at nearly every theatre and concert room they obtain good seats for half-price, and sometimes for quarterprice.) At the old Stadt Theatre prices are about one third cheaper, and on Sunday afternoon classic plays are given at half-price, —a custom which originated in Vienna, and found a speedy following throughout Germany. This idea of cheap classical performances was projected with the philanthropic motive of educating and elevating the taste of the populace. The results have confirmed all anticipations, and every Sunday afternoon the theatre is crowded with enthusiastic audiences.

This very cheapness is probably one great reason why the Leipzig theatre directors have met with such great pecuniary success. It is more profitable to play to a full house at low prices than to a thin house at high prices; and in Leipzig the theatre is always well filled, and generally crowded, for the prices are so moderate that they are within the reach of all classes. Theatre-going is hardly looked on as a luxury, but as a matter of course, ranking with the daily paper and cup of coffee after dinner. Everybody goes to the theatre, and it would not be surprising to hear one's washerwoman give her opinion about the latest comedy, which she saw from her six-cent place in the old theatre gallery.

In the new theatre the drama is given on alternate nights with the opera, and there are only five nights in the year when the theatre is closed, — the two fast-days and the last three days of Passion Week. In the old theatre there are generally three or four performances a

week, except at the great fair in the spring and autumn, when the theatre is open nightly. Two thirds of all the reserved seats in the new theatre are sold by subscription, at about three fifths of the regular price, and something like three hundred subscription performances are guaranteed in the course of the year. The receipts from the subscriptions pay the expenses of the theatre, and all other receipts are clear profit. A theatre subscription, like a subscription to the famous Gewandhaus concerts, is very popular, and it is rarely that one is offered for sale. It is regarded almost like a title of nobility, and old families treasure their abonnement next to their genealogical chart.

The performances generally begin at half past six o'clock, and are out between nine and ten, so that after the theatre a good part of the evening still remains for social pleasures. Going to the theatre there is not such a terrible solemnity as it is in London, and, in a less degree, with us. Unless it were some elaborate state festivity, no one would think of attending even the royal opera in Berlin, Dresden, or Munich in full dress. The German says: We go to enjoy the play or the music, not to show our toilette. And so the auditorium of a German operahouse looks quite differently from a London one, with its chattering people in elaborate dress, who, it is easy to see, cannot understand the language they are but half hearing, and which they pretend to admire merely for fashion's sake. At the Leipzig theatre, be it on opera or drama night, the audience has a peculiarly at-home look. All leave their outdoor clothing in the cloak-room, so that they need have no fear of catching cold after the theatre. Ladies are not forbidden to wear their hats, but it is looked on as a mark of ill-breeding if they do; and should a lady thus interfere with the view of a person sitting behind she need not take affront at a request to remove the offending article. Between the acts there are long waits, and the audience pours into the large and elegant foyer adjoining the auditorium on the balcony level, and promenades back

and forth; everybody sees everybody else, acquaintances greet each other, the hungry and thirsty refresh themselves in the spacious restaurant, and in pleasant summer weather animated groups gather in the mild evening air on the great balcony overlooking the Augustus Platz, which spreads below, sprinkled like a firmament with its many gas-lights.

As a natural result of the subscription system such a thing as the "run" of a play, in the English sense, is unknown at a court or city theatre. The répertoire is changed nightly, and if a new play or opera proves popular it is performed very often during the season, many times with suspended subscription, so that the subscribers may not complain of a surfeit. But as the subscriptions are largely in halves, quarters, and even eighths, and as it takes some time for even a whole subscription to make the round of a family, complaints do not often occur. And in consequence of the system of a changing répertoire a person in Leipzig, with its one hundred and twenty-six thousand inhabitants, has a greater dramatic variety than in London, with its millions.

The Leipzigers are very proud of their theatre, whose history is so closely knit with the history of the German drama, and have testified their appreciation very substantially by endowing it with the richest theatre pension fund in all Germany. Every actor who has been connected with the Leipzig theatre for six years, on his retiring altogether from the stage, is entitled to a pension equal to one third of the salary he was receiving at the time he ceased to be a member of the Leipzig company. This is naturally a great inducement for actors to continue their connection with the theatre, so that the company has a permanency which contrasts strangely with the continual changes in the stock companies of our theatres. The result is an ensemble of which one acquainted only with our theatres can have but a faint conception. Any intelligent and experienced manager will say that he can make a company of medium talent, whose members are long used to the same theatre, to the same public, and to each other, work to

gether and appear to advantage better than a galaxy of stars of the first magnitude hastily brought together. But more than this, the high reputation of the Leipzig theatre throughout Germany, and the attraction of the splendid pension fund, place the best young talent of the country at its command. A young actor, for this reason, prefers to play here rather than at some of the greater court theatres at a much larger salary; for to graduate with honor from the Leipzig stage is a certain passport to any other. Many of the greatest of German actors and singers begin their career at Leipzig. A recent instance is that of Fräulein Franciska Ellmenreich, a young actress of remarkable genius, and of such brilliancy, grace, and versatility that her répertoire comprised the most different rôles in parlor comedy, the emotional drama, and high tragedy. She was alike good as Katharina in The Taming of the Shrew, as Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing, as Donna Diana in Moreto's comedy, as Juliet, as Gretchen, or as Countess Orsini in Emilia Galotti. She is now engaged to occupy a leading position at the Hofburg Theatre in Vien

na, a theatre which stands at the head of the German stage, and where the most perfect acting is found. The writer has often thought that if Fräulein Ellmenreich could be induced to learn English, as Janauschek has done, and make an American tour, a great triumph would await her.

While no such enormous salaries are paid as in America, the average actor is well recompensed, and is generally in comfortable circumstances, often accumulating a respectable fortune. The social position of the profession is also good; nearly all the old prejudice has disappeared; and distinguished actors move in the best society. Professional stars are almost unknown, and the stock company is everywhere the chief reliance. Even the most famous actors and singers are permanently engaged at some great court or city theatre, and at certain seasons of the year they are, according to contract, given leave of absence, when they make tours of two or