Trelawney of the Wells. Each year when summer first catches a determined grip and the Theatre loses all but a few lingering popular diversions, the Players' Club gathers unto itself an extraordinary group of notables and has a revival. There is something about these ceremonies that causes true devotees of the Theatre to hesitate, possibly to worship a little. To see John Drew upon the stage playing a scene in classic comedy with Laurette Taylor; to meet Mrs. Thomas Whiffin, Amelia Bingham and Violet Heming in the same cast; to hear ovations and the curtain speeches—all these things are to find concentrated the talent and devotion of distinguished lifetimes, giving homage to an ideal and receiving it in kind. It mattered not last week that Manhattan suffered from the most persistent heat wave of recent times. People gave up their roof gardens and their evening in the country to watch this brilliant assembly. John Drew, who shares with Mrs. Fiske the greatest honors of our Theatre, played through the whole week despite his advancing years, his failing sight—despite the temperature. The cheers that greeted him must have made it all worth while and more so. And the performance that he gave caused the most determined modernists of our spectators to shake their heads a trifle sadly and note that, although ideas, mechanisms, money have done much for our stage, they cannot replace John Drew. Laurette Taylor's startling genius gave the breath and brilliancy of life to the name role. William Courtleigh, O. P. Heggie, Violet Heming, Ernest Lawford contented themselves with perfecting the background of small parts. Sir Arthur Wing Pinero's cordial comedy of life behind the scenes of a small English playhouse never was better played. All in all a rare week. Spooks is a mystery play. Borrowing a descriptive bit from Ring Lardner, one might say that the mystery was how it came to be produced. It is one more of those complicated compasses varying to every point in the circle except the point of actual guilt. A few minutes before you go home, the true offender is ferreted out, love is rewarded, justice triumphs. Grant Mitchell, an excellent actor who has run into a rude streak of luck since the cheerful months in The Tailor-made Man, is again making the best of a bad job.
Charley's Aunt. Oldest subscribers will probably recall their ringing hilarity when this veteran first came to town— Manhattan, Little Rock or East Aurora. Although statistics are not at hand, it has almost certainly been the most popular of modern plays. For 20 years or more, scarcely a week has become history without some company somewhere painting its title on its varying shingle. The play is farce, dealing with the impersonation by an undergraduate of an elderly lady to act in the capacity of chaperon at a college party. The current company is by no means distinguished. The horseplay seems singularly oldfashioned. It is still funny. Lucky Sambo. Negro musical comedies tipped Manhattan off its tolerant balance some seasons back with Shuffle Along. Ever since then, there have been imitations. Of Lucky Sambo it is not necessary to beware. The music is fair, the humor humorously to type and the dancing uncontrollable. There is a plot about an oil well, and a man who remarks to his girl: "What did you do with that $4 I promised you last night ?"