Dumpty clown, who played a week in September to $6,000. In October, Charlotte Cushman appeared here for the last time in Albany as an actress, playing Lady Macbeth. Meg Merrilies, and Queen Katherine. She subsequently gave readings on the same stage, November 27th.

The hall is a favorite with minstrel and variety troupes on account of its size; but it is identified with no class of amusements in particular, all sorts being given there, from grand opera to sparring matches. It is provided with a false floor, by which seats are raised in tiers, or they can be removed when the room is required for dancing. Mr. Theodore Mosher is now the agent.

IN

CHAPTER XXIX.

Conclusion.

'N putting together the record of which the preceding chapter is the conclusion, the compiler, warned by the endless diversions which some dramatic historians have inflicted on their readers, has endeavored to refrain from moralizing, or otherwise protruding his personal views upon many phases of the subject, which have temptingly presented themselves, feeling assured that the intelligent reader- and his readers, of course, are all intelligent-is fully competent to make his own comment, draw his own inference, and formulate his own opinion. In view of this amiable forbearance, a few reflections may now, perhaps, be tolerated, or at the worst, like many another "moral," be skipped altogether, and the narrative lose nothing, and the reader not much.

In looking over the dramatic history of a century, the most natural question that arises is, "Has the stage degenerated? a question still sur les tapis, as it

has been ever since Roscius was an actor in Rome. They were averring the fact in Shakspeare's time; Colley Cibber deplored it almost as much as the Cockney school of 1817 did four-score years later; while Carpenter and the critics who have succeeded him in America, have, as a rule, echoed the lamentation of their English brethren, down to the present time; each generation in turn glorifying the one or two next preceding it. Now either the Drama must have been, like our first parents, perfection to start with, in order, after centuries of deterioration, to exist in its present by no means despicable state, or

else its degeneracy has been somewhat over stated. · Let us not forget, then, after all, that this doleful jeremiad may be, in part, only the endless refrain of "the good old days," heard everywhere, about every thing; the recollection of "the light that never was on sea or land"-the reflection of "the Heaven that lies about us in our infancy," and which gilds the play-house of our youth with a glory never equalled in later years. For "in the light of common day," it must be admitted that in many respects the theatre has kept up with the march of modern improvements which has characterized the last century. In the matter of machinery, scenery and appointments, an advance has been made, which all will admit. In front of the curtain, too, the changes have been equally as great, and quite as important. The loud and noisy pit, so boisterous at times as to drown the voice of the actor, is heard no more; the occupants of the boxes no longer feel at liberty to spit upon the people below them, and the "third tier," of which it is a shame, almost, to speak, seems to-day as much of an impossibility as African slavery. It is extremely doubtful, indeed, whether, if the finest acting of which we have any account, were reproduced in 1880, with all the circumstances and customs attending it a hundred years ago or less, money enough would be taken at the door to pay the -not gas, but oil bill.

But our pessimists while admitting all this, still shake their heads and ask: Where are the great actors? How thrives the legitimate drama? And so far as tragedy and tragedians are concerned, we may well echo: Where, indeed? For of all the changes in theatrical fashions during the last thirty years, the decline of tragedy is the most apparent. From being the central feature of the drama, it is now only revived at intervals, to display the talent of some individual performer. It is said by some, that this is because there are no tragedians, but there are none simply because there is no demand for them. When George Frederick Cooke, the greatest tragedian America has

ever seen-came to these shores, it was because he was wanted here, and coming, was appreciated, even in ruins as he was. The elder Kean was much run after, till he brought disgrace upon himself, and the elder Booth drew crowded houses when nothing but his wreck remained. The later coterie of American tragedians, Scott, Addams, Eaton, and Forrest, each had his partisans, who thronged the theatre to applaud their favorite when he appeared, and to criticise his rivals, when they came. But these, all but Forrest, fell by the way, and he lived to find himself much neglected. Tragedy has little in keeping with frivolity, and frivolity is the characteristic of the age. The humorist is the best paid man in literature; the burlesque writer, the most fortunate of playwrights. Each newspaper keeps its funny man, who is permitted to write every thing from head-lines to leaders, while the reporter, who cannot caricature as well as chronicle, is of little value. The lawyer ornaments pleas with puns; the judge renders his decision with a Pinaforic epigram; jurymen's hearts are won with a merry tale, and the prisoner himself goes laughing to the scaffold. From the clown in the ring to the clergy in the tabernacle, the object in life is to create a laugh. In such an era of universal cachinnation, it is not strange that tragedy, the study of the deepest passions of the human breast, should drop from the category of popular amusements; and with its representatives no longer in demand, the supply fails, naturally, or, at least, is not manifest. To be sure, the race has not entirely died away, and never will. We still have Edwin Booth, an intellectual reflection of his father's genius; McCullough, apt scholar in the school of Edwin Forrest, and Barrett, ambitious, refined and scholarly--all three good actors—not great. Charlotte Cushman, as yet, has no successor, unless it be Mary Anderson, of whom, although there is every thing to hope, it is not time to speak with certainty.

The people want to laugh, but they do not laugh at the same plays which amused their predecessors. With

tragedy has gone, also, its concomitant, the old-fashioned one-act farce, with its broad grimace and broader jest, and this is not greatly to be deplored. There is no reason to lament over the fact that decency is, to-day, obligatory upon managers and actors; that the vulgarity of Barnes, of Hilson, of Burton, and of most of the old time comedians, would not be countenanced in an ordinary variety show; that the indelicacy which used to set the pit a-roaring, has gone out, and with it much of the profanity with which genteel comedy was interlarded.

"But is the stage any the more moral?" interrupts our desponding friend; "I admit that Rabelais is no longer read, but are not Ouida's novels still selling? How about Camille,' and the scores of French emotional dramas, of which it is the type? What can you say to two or three years of 'Black Crook?' Remember and explain, if you can, the abnormal growth of blonde, dyed and padded burlesque! Palliate, if you dare, the rottenness of Champagne and Oysters,' and the other French dishes which have been so popular. Apologize for "—

We beg to be excused. There is no more reason why we should do so than in exalting the present cleanliness of English literature, compared with the days of Smollett, Sterne, and Fielding, we should be brought to bay with questions about the Police Gazette and the Shady Side library. There is this to be said: That while there are enough people in the great cities, who revel in uncleanliness, to make it profitable for some managers to prostitute the stage, the growing tendency of the times is against it. It is worth while to notice that inost of the objectionable features above mentioned are to be spoken of in the past tense. "Camille," to be sure, has reached the dignity of a standard drama, but its morality is stoutly defended by excellent per"The Black Crook," while, like all mere spectacles, demoralizing to dramatic art, owed less of its success to nudity than was at first supposed. Without its magnificent settings, managers undressed women,

sons.