A Good-by to Rip Van Winkle

WE are getting into the last days of Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle. We shall see it now and then, of course, so long as Mr. Jefferson keeps the stage; but it is not likely to be his pièce de résistance after this season, and, unless signs fail, it will in future be something like a wedding suit, taken out on anniversaries and admired or criticised, but not worn for every-day occasions. Besides, Mr. Jefferson will probably not play except for parts of seasons hereafter, and then for the greater portion of the time in other pieces than Rip Van Winkle.

At the close of his last engagement in Chicago, it was estimated by Mr. Jefferson that he had played the part of Rip forty-five hundred times. No modern play — we doubt if any play, ancient or modern — has ever been presented so many times by one actor. From the commercial stand-point of the business manager, the play is alluded to as worn out; but that gentleman must use the term in a comparative sense, for, although the piece has been acted in Chicago several hundred times, it drew, during the last week of its performance, houses that would have been considered large and very remunerative by the great majority of combinations.

As almost every one knows, the version of Rip Van Winkle played by Mr. Jefferson is the work of Dion Boucicault. That is, Mr. Boucicault has the credit of dramatizing the story, and his deft handiwork can be observed in its easy movement; but the character of Rip Van Winkle, as interpreted by Jefferson, is largely his own creation, in a literary as well as in a dramatic sense. Mr. Boucicault recently stated that Mr. Jefferson’s idea was to make Rip much older at the opening of the story, but that he (Boucicault) finally had his way, and in the early scenes the character was represented as youthful. The memory of the dramatist is probably a little treacherous as regards this fact. The original version of Irving’s story was the work of Charles Burke, a near relative of Mr. Jefferson, who played quite successfully in the part himself. Mr. Jefferson succeeded him, and the character then, as now, was made youthful at the beginning of the story. Indeed, the leggings worn by Mr. Jefferson in the play to-day are the very same worn by Burke a quarter of a century ago. It is quite probable that the idea of making the character old at the start was canvassed; but Jefferson had already been so successful in the play that it is scarcely likely that the thought was seriously entertained. Mr. Boucicault gives Mr. Burke less credit than he deserves, for the play as now performed is really an adaptation of his work, rather than a dramatization of Irving’s story.

I read a paragraph in the dramatic column of a newspaper the other day to the following effect : “ Mr. Jefferson has been drawing good houses during the week in Rip Van Winkle, his remarkable delineation of the title rôle giving an interest to a play that is not only worn threadbare, but which is of course dramatically worthless.”

Now this is a great though very common mistake. To be sure, the play would amount to little without the chief character, but that can be said of many of the best works of the kind. The test of dramatic construction is the interest a play excites when presented by a competent company; and judged by this, Rip Van Winkle is a piece of no mean pretensions. There are humor, pathos, and philosophy in it, and the utilization of Irving’s idea of the ghostly crew is a capital scenic idea.

The play moves rapidly ; there are not ten minutes altogether when the attention is not riveted, and Mr. Boucicault has most happily succeeded in the difficult task of keeping his main character on the stage almost constantly, and yet without seeming to put him forward, make him garrulous, or remind the audience that they are seeing a great deal of the star. This, as well as the acting, is certainly the art that conceals art. Indeed, I doubt very much if one person in ten thousand has ever thought of the rather singular fact that Jefferson, in the something over two hours it requires to act the play, is scarcely off the stage fifteen minutes.

In this and in many other respects, Mr. Boucicault deserves much credit; but if the draft of the play, as prepared by him, were found (and by the way, if it is in existence, it is because it has been stenographed and stolen, for Mr. Jefferson has no copy), it would be discovered that the finest touches, humorous and pathetic, the naturalness of the language as well as of the acting at many of the most effective points, are Jefferson’s, and not the playwright’s. Sometimes this appears in a whole sentence ; again, in a word, or the reversal of the order of words in the original text. From first to last the part of Rip Van Winkle is a profound study in language and movement, and the part, having reached practical perfection, has been acted by Mr. Jefferson for years with scarcely a change in a gesture. He began playing this version in 1865, and the auditor who saw him come upon the stage fifteen years ago, and take a seat on the table at a certain moment and in a certain position, sees the same thing to-day, and, observing him time after time, fails to discover even a minute departure from the original “ business ” of the piece.

I would not care to guess at the number of times I have witnessed this play, but it was only within the last week that I ever saw a break of any kind, and that was through the blunder of a property man, and necessitated a movement and a few words on the part of Mr. Jefferson which were not down in the play.

When Gretchen put her hand into the game bag, where she usually finds a bottle, which she pulls out and shakes in the guilty face of her spouse, the bottle was not there. The lady who was supporting Mr. Jefferson whispered the fact to him, when he immediately said, —

“ You go mit the children, Gretchen, — go ’long mit you, now.”

And thus speaking, he pushed her towards the side entrance, where the bottle was secured, placed in the game bag, and the play went on.

I have spoken of the fine touches, the supreme naturalness of language and acting that characterizes this presentation. At the risk of seeming to dwell on trifling points and unimportant details, I venture to particularize.

The coarser way of telling that Rip is very tired of his wife’s ways, and quite disappointed in the quantity of happiness he has extracted from the matrimonial state, would be for him to say at once what he says later, and pursue the subject in that strain : that if ever Gretchen tumbles in the water she has got to help herself, — to “ schwim,” as he expresses it; but Jefferson gradually approaches that point.

“ Stop ! ” he says, taking his cup from his mouth, after being told that the liquor bought by Derrick of Nick Vedder is ten years old, “ Stop! That liker is more dan ten years old. You put it in the cellar the day I got married, you say. Well, I know it by dat. Dot is more dan ten years ago. You tink I will ever forget the day I got married ? No, indeed! I remember that the longest day I live.” This in a natural way introduces the subject of Rip’s marital troubles. After admitting that Gretchen was a lovely girl then, and telling them how, on the day of the wedding, “ she like to got drounded,” that the ferry-boat she was coming over in upset, but “ she was n’t in it,” a very nice bit of work is brought forward.

“ But surely, Rip,” says Derrick, “ you would not see your wife drown ? You would rescue her.”

Rip rocks back and forth on the table, his hands clasped over one of his knees, and a smile half reflective and half amused on his face.

“ You mean I would yump in and pull Gretchen out? Would I ? Humph!” (Still rocking. After a moment’s pause and with a sudden thought:) “Oh, den?” (Stops rocking.) “ Yes, I believe I would den. And it would be more my duty now.”

Derrick. Why, how is that, Rip ?

Rip. Well, when a man gets married mit his wife a long time he grows very fond of her. But now, if Gretchen was drowuin,’ and she say, “ Rip, come and save your vife ! ” I say, Mrs. Van Winkle, I shust go home and I tink about dot. Oh, no, if Gretchen ever tumble in the water, she has got to schwim.

Mr. Jefferson never talks to the audience. His best points are made in an ordinary tone, and the spectators seem to he overhearing by chance, and not listening to what is intended to catch their ears and tickle their fancy.

“ Ah, where will we be then? ” (twenty years from now), sighs Derrick, as he prepares the paper for Rip to sign.

“ I don’t know about myself,” responds Rip, as if speaking to himself, — never to the audience ; “ but I can guess pretty well where you ’ll be about dot time.” This, if spoken with the appearance of trying to create a laugh, would lose half its force.

Observe the look that tells better than words that Rip’s suspicions are aroused by the gift of the purse of money.

“ All right now, ain’t it, Rip ? ” queries Derrick. Rip bows in a puzzled way, tossing the purse uneasily in his hands. “No fear of Gretchen now, eh ? ”

“ No-o, — oh, no, no fear now,” responds Rip, as he looks first at the purse and then at the retreating form of the man who has pretended to befriend him. His back is to us, but we know that he is perplexed, and is carefully considering the reasons for this unexpected kindness on the part of Derrick. Then come the words, “ I don’t know about dot,” the uneasy tossing of the purse again, and the exclamation, “ It don’t chink like good money, any way.”

In speaking of the finer and more delicate features of this delineation, one runs the risk of producing only the words, and failing to invest them with anything like the meaning given them by the actor. In such a case the effort must prove flat and unprofitable indeed. But so many are familiar with the part that the bare repetition of the words of the text may recall the actor’s manner and expression ; and this being so, the discussion may prove interesting.

When Rip passes up the stage and looks in the direction where Gretchen is supposed to be busy with her duties, a momentary feeling of admiration, and perhaps self-condemnation, comes over him.

“ There she is at the wash-tub,” says Rip. “ What a hard-working woman that is ! ” Then, with a sigh, “ Well, somebody has got to do it, I suppose.”

The whole character of Rip is revealed in that one sentence.

When his child Meenie comes to him and throws her arms around his neck, the good-for-nothing vagabond has another qualm of conscience : —

“ I don’t see you for such a long time, do I ?” (taking her face between his hands). My ! My ! I don’t deserve to have such a t’ing like dot.”

“ You are a good papa,” observes Meeuie.

“ No, I’m not! No good fadder would go rob his child. Dot’s wot I done, my darling. I gone an’ rob you. All dose houses and lauds, dey all belong to me once, and dey would been yours when you grow up. What has come of them now ? I gone and drunk ’em all up, my darling, — dot’s what I done. Hendrick” (to the boy), “you take warning: never you drink anything so long wot you live. It brings a man to ruin and misery and rags and — Ish dere any more dere in dot cup ? ”

But Rip has pride, with all his worthlessness. He must find out the real purport of the paper Derrick has given him to sign ; yet he does not like to appear ignorant before the lad who has so often seen him drunk, — not an unusual thing in such cases. He calls the boy to him, and begins in a roundabout way.

“ Why don’t you go to school to-day, Hendrick ? You go to school sometimes, don’t you ? ”

“ When my father can spare me,” returns the boy.

“ What you learn there now ? Pretty much sometings — I mean eberytings ? ”

“ I learn reading, writing, and arithmetic,” answers Hendrick.

“ Readin’ ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ Und what?”

“ Writing.”

“ Writin’ ? ”

“ Yes, and arithmetic.”

“ Und what maticks is dot?”

“ Arithmetic.”

“ Can you read ? ”

“ Oh, yes.”

“ I don’t believe it.” (Taking out paper.) “ If you can’t read, I won’t let you marry my daughter. I won’t have anybody in my family who can’t read.” (Handing paper to Hendrick.) “ Can you read dot ? ”

“ Oh, yes ; this is writing.”

“ I thought it was readin’.”

“ So it is ; reading and writing both.”

“ Both togedder! ” (taking paper and looking at it.), “ Oh yes, — so-o it is. I did n’t see dot.”

Derrick has read this document aloud to Rip up to a certain point, but beyond that the provisions are vastly different from those represented. When the boy reads the first line, — “ Know all men by these presents,” — Rip notes that the words are the same that he has heard Derrick recite, and he merely remarks encouragingly, —

“ You read almost as well as Derrick.” The boy continues : —

“ That I, Rip Van Winkle, in consideration of the sum of fifteen pounds ” —

“You read just as well as Derrick,” interrupts Rip. “ Go on.”

Here comes in a little bit of “ business,” that Mr. Jefferson never omits, and which is always acted in precisely the same way. It shows how every movement is studied, and how careful he is about the smallest details of his work.

He has placed his hands over his head, leaning back in the attitude of listening, and as he tells Hendrick to go on lifts his limp hat from his head, and holds it in his fingers. Hendrick proceeds : —

“ Do bargain, sell, and convey all my houses, lands, and property whereof I hold possession ” —

Then the hat drops, — a perfect expression of sudden surprise, — and Rip hurriedly inquires what Hendrick is reading some “ rithmeticks ” for, which are not down in the paper. Assured that the words are all there, he folds the document up, and for the first time assumes an earnest tone as he says, —

“ Yes, my boy. You read it better than Derrick.”

Startled at this attempt to rob him, Rip resolves to be watchful ; and right here Mr. Jefferson’s delineation of the well-meaning but weak and vacillating Dutchman appears in all its perfection.

“ Now, Rip,” he says to himself, “ keep a sharp lookout. I drink no more liker, that’s certain. I swore off now for good.”

But alas, he has promised to stand treat to the whole village, and here the village comes, eager for a carouse.

“ Here I have just gone and invited the boys to a ’rouse,” says Rip, as he remembers the embarrassing situation, “ and I swore off.” But he pays for the liquor, and tells them to go on.

“ I do not yoin you; I swore off.”

Swore off, and on such an occasion as this ! Why, it is ridiculous, and they tell him so. It is easy to see, moreover, that Rip is a little out of patience himself at his hasty promise ; but he maintains a determined front, and rebukes those who urge him to take part with ludicrous severity.

“Jacob Stine! Don’t I told you I swrnre off ? Vell, den, dot’s enough. Wen I say a ting I mean it.” But as he turns from Jacob Stine, there stands Nick Vedder, with the tempting cup, on the other side, and the look of comical displeasure melts away ; the good resolutions are forgotten, and with a promise not to “ count dis one ” Rip gives himself up again to conviviality. “Here is your good healths and your families; may they live long and prosper.”

In a picture so perfect as a whole, it is difficult to select points for special commendation, but the consummate acting in the scene wdiere Rip returns to his home in the storm, still under the effect of the liquor he has taken, occurs to me as particularly worthy of mention. Gretchen is secreted behind a clothes-horse near the open window, as Rip staggers up. A glimpse of his ragged coat as he approaches the window, and then dodges back, fearing his wife, is the first intimation we have of his coming. The children see him, and when he reappears motion him to beware ; but he does not understand them, and in his drunken awkwardness drops his hat inside the window. His involuntary “ reach ” for the hat and sudden recollection of danger and abandonment of the attempt are very ludicrous. Finding that he is not pursued, however, Rip ventures up again, and seeing no signs of Gretchen inquires for her, bending over to recover his hat at the same time.

“ Has de wild cat come home ? ” says Rip ; but he is seized by the hair at this juncture, and immediately realizes that he is in the toils of the enemy.

“ My darlin’ — don’t do that,” says Rip.

“ Don’t, mother, don’t! ” cries Meenie.

“ Don’t, mother, don’t! ” repeats Rip. “ Don’t you hear the children dere talkin’ to you ? ”

Gretchen. Now, sir, who did you call a wild cat ?

Rip (reflecting and chewing the end of his necktie). Dot ’s the time when I come in the window there ?

Gretchen. Yes, when you — come — in — the — window.

Rip. That’s the time wot I said it.

Gretchen. And that’s the time that I heard it. Now who did you mean ?

Rip (as if trying to remember). Who did I mean ? May be I mean my dog Snyder.

Gretchen. That’s a likely story.

Rip. Ov course it is likely. He’s my dog. I ’ll call him a wild cat as much as I like.

One more allusion to this scene.

When Gretchen gets the bottle of liquor, Rip tries very hard to induce her to give it back; and failing to do so, breaks a plate or two, and finally sets himself down on the table, with his back to Gretchen, in high dudgeon. Gretchen, warlike and determined, takes a seat in a chair at the other end, and says, —

“ Now perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me where you have been for the last two days.” (No answer.)

“ Where have you been ? ” (Still no answer.) “ Do you hear me ? ”

Rip (partly turning round). It’s not my bottle, any way. I borrowed de bottle.

Gretchen (thoroughly mad, and striking the table to emphasize each word). Why — did — you — stop — out — all — night ?

Rip (equally emphatic, and striking the table in the same manner). Because — I — wanted — to — get — up — early — in — de — moh(hic)ning.

“ I don’t want the bottle,” says Rip. “ I have had enough.”

“ I am glad you know that you have had enough,” responds Gretchen.

“ Dot’s the same way with me,” answers Rip. “ I am glad that I know when I have had enough. And I am glad when I have had enough, too.”

Mollified at last, he proceeds to tell Gretchen of his adventures.

“ You know that old forty-acre field of ours,” says Rip.

“ Ours!” exclaims Gretchen bitterly.

“ Well, it used to be ours. You know well enough what I mean.” (The interruption has offended Rip, and he stops his story.) “ It don’t belong to us now, does it? ” he says rather mockingly.

“ No, indeed,” responds Gretchen.

“ Well, den, I would n’t bodder about it. Let the man wot owns it worry over it.”

When Gretchen begins to cry, Rip’s spirits rise.

“ Doant you cry, Gretchen, my darlin’,” says Rip, in a comforting tone.

“ I will cry ! ” exclaims Gretchen, spitefully.

“ Oh, very well; cry as much as you like ! ” exclaims Rip, relapsing into an ugly mood again.

But this passes off. Gretchen’s head is on the table. The bottle is in her pocket. Rip sees his opportunity. He approaches, ostensibly to comfort her, really to get the bottle. Finally, after much manœuvring, he obtains it, and then, putting his arms around her shoulders, rocks back and forth as he sits on the table, gently patting her on the shoulder and keeping time to his motion.

“ Oh, if yon would only treat me kindly!” sobs Gretchen.

“ Well, I’m going to treat you kindly,” returns Rip, still patting Gretchen at regular intervals as he rocks.

“ It would add ten years to my life,” says Gretchen. Rip’s hand is up, about to descend in its regular stroke on her back, but it stops short. It is the announcement of Gretchen that kindness will add ten years to her life that stops it. The hand talks, and it says this ; no need of a word from Rip to indicate that he considers the inducement questionable. You know that well enough before he speaks.

I know of no other play where three whole scenes are given with but one speaking character ; yet, from the entrance on the first of these scenes by Rip, where he announces that he must spend another night in the mountains, and where he talks to the trees as if they knew and understood him, to his departure down the mountain after his supposed sleep of twenty years, there is not a moment when the interest flags. His interview with the ghostly crew is unique, and though there are not twenty lines in the scene it occupies nearly twenty minutes in the playing.

Judging, from the motions of the first one of the crew he meets, that his strange visitor wants help up the mountain with the keg, Rip points to the keg, then to his own shoulders, then up the mountain, whereupon the hunchback bows in assent.

“ Vell, vy don’t you say so, den ? ” asks Rip. “You want me to help you up the mountain with the keg, eh ? ” (Bows.) “What have you got in the keg ? Schnapps ? ” (More bows.) “ I don’t believe it.” But he does believe it, and the spectator sees that he goes with much more alacrity in consequence.

Frightened at the array of unearthlylooking men on top of the mountain, Rip excuses himself by saying to the chief that he did not want to come, any way.

“ Your old grandchild never told me anybody was here, did you ?” (appealing to the figure he has met at the foot of the mountain, which figure signifies by a shake of the head that such was the fact). “ No ! Vell, you ought to told me about dot,” says Kip.

I have said that much of this play is the work of Mr. Jefferson, and this scene is an illustration of the fact. No playwright, indeed, could make it as Jefferson presents it.

The ghostly captain signifies that there is liquor to be drunk, and Rip’s timidity largely disappears. Here he is at home.

Rip. You want to drink mit me ? (Captain bows.) Say, wot’s the matter mit you ? Was you deaf ? (A shake of the head.) Oh, no, of course you was not deaf, or you could not hear wot I was saying. Was you dumb? (Bows.) So ? Oh! (pityingly). You vas dumb ! (Expression of commiseration.) Has all of your family got the same complaint ? (Bows from the captain.) Yes ? All dumb? (turning slowly round, and surveying the circle of figures, all of whom bow, in affirmative answer to his questions. As the last one bows, Rip nods towards the others). Yes, dey told me. (Raising his cup as if to drink, he suddenly stops.) Oh, have you got any girls ? (Shake of the captain’s head.) No? Such a big family, and all boys! Dot ’s a pity. If you had some girls, what wives they would make!

The appearance of Rip in the prosperous and bustling little village, after his twenty years’ sleep, could very easily be made ridiculous, but the character never becomes so in the hands of Mr. Jefferson. What a weak, bewildered old man he is ! The town is familiar, yet strange. The river and the hills and the mountains seem natural, but the faces have changed since yesterday, and no one looks upon him with a nod of recognition. Here where his humble house stood rises a pretentious dwelling.

“ Tell me, do you live here ? ” he inquires of the smart young successor of Nick Vedder, who kept the village tavern twenty years before.

“ Well, rather. I was born here.”

Yes, he knew Nick Yedder and Jacob Stine, but both are loug since dead.

“Did you know” (hesitatingly) — “ did you know Rip Van Winkle?”

“ What, the laziest drunken vagabond in the whole village ? ”

“ Yes, dot was the man,” says Rip sadly.

“ Oh, he has been dead these twenty years.”

“ Rip Van Winkle is dead ? ”

“ Why, certainly.”

All this is very bewildering, but after a glass of wine Rip tries again.

“ Dot gives me strength to ask these people one more question. My friend, there was a little girl — Meenie she was called. She — she is not dead ? ”

The holding of the breath, the convulsive fumbling of the chin and lip, — how much they tell ! How eloquently they express the painful suspense of the inquirer ! But she is alive, and an appearance of relief strikes Rip’s whole figure at this intelligence.

“ Meenie is alive ! It’s all right now.”

“ She is not only alive, but the prettiest girl in the whole village,” says the young man.

“ Oh, I know that,” says Rip, with the father’s pride in his voice, — “I know that! ”

Up to this time Rip supposes that Gretchen is dead, and the announcement that she is not gives an opportunity for humor to follow close on the heels of pathos.

“Gretchen!” he exclaims. “Why, is not Gretchen dead, then ? ”

“ No, but married again.”

“ Why, how could she do a thing like that? ”

It is explained to him that it was all easy enough. When Rip died, Gretchen became a widow, and of course she was free to marry.

“ Oh, yes,” remarks the husband. “ I forgot about Rip being dead.”

Then the crowning surprise comes in the statement that she has married Derrick.

“What! Derrick Von Beekman! Has Gretcben married Derrick? Well! I never thought he would come to any good. Poor Derrick.”

Finally the simple old fellow is urged to tell who and what he is.

“ I don’t know how it is,” he says, “but my name used to be Rip Van Winkle.”

“ Impossible ! ” exclaims young Hendrick Vedder.

“Well, I would not swear to it myself,” says Rip.

Seeing that none recognize him, and wondering what can be the matter and how it can all be, Rip comes to that soliloquy so full of pathos and which strikes such a chord in the hearts of his audience: —

“ Why, I was born here. Even the dogs used to know me. Now dey bark at me. And the little children, dey all used to know me ; now (swallowing a sob) — now dey run from me. My, my ! are we so soon forgot when we are gone ? ”

But the summit of the pathetic is reached when Rip endeavors to make his child remember him. For a time he cannot believe that the full-grown woman before him is really his daughter ; but in talking with her of her father, he soon discovers the features of his Meenie.

“See the smile! Oh! — and the eye ! That is just the same.”

Meenie having wished that her father were only here now, Rip tremblingly looks at her as he says, —

“ But — but he is n’t, eh ? No.”

Finally seeing the necessity of making himself known, but fearful of the consequences, Rip speaks : —

“ Meenie ! You don’t forget your fadder’s face — you could n’t do that. Look at me now, and tell me, did you never see me before ? Try ! try ! ”

The girl looks, half doubtingly, and asks him to explain. He goes on.

“ Yesterday — it seems to me yesterday — I had here my wife, my home, my child Meenie, and my dog Snyder ; but last night — well — there was a storm — try to remember — I went away — you were a little girl — I met some queer fellows in the mountains, and I got to drinking mit ’em, and I guess I got pretty drunk — When I wake this morning — well” (putting his hands to his head and face in that effort to crush back the sobs), “ my wife is gone, my home is gone, and my child looks in my face and don’t know who I am.”

If there is a fault in the acting of this play, it is in the hurried recognition of her father by Meenie at this point; but the audience are always eager for this dénoûment, and do not stop to weigh the effect of a little longer pause at this crisis of the piece.

Taking this representation altogether, I think the impartial verdict must be that it exhibits the most perfect bit of acting on the stage. But it is like a rare painting, rich and deep, and needing long and earnest inspection to discover its full beauty.

Mr. Jefferson acts with his whole body, and from head to foot is charged with the part. When he overhears Gretcben saying, threateningly, “Oh, Rip, Rip, just wait till I get you home ! ” and he turns and walks swiftly away, the action is literally twice as expressive as words. A terrified exit or a trembling of the limbs would make the thoughtless laugh just as loud, but would destroy that striking realism which is conspicuously present in all he does. A coarser-fibred actor would play it that way, and in the shout would mark a triumph for himself, and be puzzled to account for his failure to achieve a Jeffersonian success. But the fault would be simply that he failed to observe the injunction of Hamlet, and hold the mirror up to nature. That Mr. Jefferson does.

As indicated at the beginning, the public will see little more of Rip Van Winkle. Mr. Jefferson will not only play less in the future, but he will devote the greater share of the time he spends on the boards to other pieces. His recent success in reviving the part of Caleb Plummer, in the Cricket on the Hearth, induces the belief that his triumph in this character will be second only to that of Rip Van Winkle. Revised and rearranged, this piece will be presented as the principal one of his repertory next season, being supplemented by that clever farce, Lend Me Five Shillings, which affords a fine contrast to the former play, and enables Mr. Jefferson to show his versatility to great advantage.

Gilbert A. Pierce.