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great advantages. It not only facilitates the sale and distribution of seats, but enables the management to vary its prices with the success of the production. In the problem of building up a run this is a very important factor. The managers urge, moreover, that in late years the rental of real estate, the salaries of actors, and the expensiveness of productions have mounted alarmingly. The agencies charge no more for seats than is charged in every metropolis of Europe. In England, for example, the box-office price of an orchestra stall is half a guinea, or $2.62, and the London ticket agencies charge the usual commission besides. Yet the sad fact remains that when leaguers pledged to go to a production are unable to get good seats at the box-office price their enthusiasm in the cause of the manager becomes strangely cold. Conversely, when they are able to buy good seats they find themselves in an atmosphere of unsuccess― the effect of which is also chilling, however worthy the play. In many cases, moreover, the manager prefers to forego assistance rather than admit a lack of success, and so the production is withdrawn before the public is aware of its danger.

In a word, it is impossible to insure that the league members attend plays which have been recommended without first insuring that they shall be able to secure seats from which they can see them and hear them.

The Drama Society of New York has hit upon a scheme which promises to solve the difficulty and to make the organization a power for incalculable good. Instead of relying on the informal pledges of its members it requires a guarantee that they will actually support the plays which its committee designates. Concretely it imposes a yearly membership fee of forty dollars. For this it gives ample return. The member receives the bulletins of the league, free admission to two or three "conferences" on dramatic subjects of the hour, and a pair of seats on the forward part of the floor to each of ten productions recommended by the committee as artistically worthy of support, whether or not they bid fair to prove popular. This means a saving of ten dollars in the course of the season over the prices charged by the ticket agencies. The dues may be paid in a single sum or in ten instalments,

which are due on receipt of bulletins recommending plays. Whenever an instalment is not paid promptly the member is dropped and his place given to the next in order on a waiting-list. In each case he is allowed to designate the evening he prefers to attend, provided only that it falls within the first month of the run. The committee furthermore saves him the time and trouble now necessary to secure good seats. On presenting his membership card at the box-office before the performance he receives the allotted tickets. In the case of out-of-town play-goers this is a very valuable consideration.

The signal advantage of the new plan, however, is that by making the season's play-going more cheerful it greatly enlarges the league membership, and thus gives an immediate atmosphere of success to productions that otherwise would have to struggle for months against failure. Last year "The Yellow Jacket" played to half-capacity until the last week of its long run. If it had had the backing of the Drama Society from the start it would probably have achieved instant success.

Incidentally something of the social atmosphere which used to distinguish New York play-going is restored. Occasionally one meets a friend and is able to discuss the performance.

On paper the manager and ticket agent sacrifice in money what the league member gains-but only on paper. What actually happens is that the manager is assured of receiving a very considerable sum of money at the start which he would not otherwise receive. The ticket agent loses nothing except in the cases, which are exceedingly rare, in which he is able to dispose of approximately the entire forward part of the house during the first month of the run. Even then the loss to both manager and ticket agent will ultimately be made up to them, and more than made up, by the advertising which the play receives from the bulletins of the league, and especially from the fact that those who have seen the play talk about it to their friends. In many more cases than hitherto the society should be able to do for the business of the theatre what was done in the cases of "The Seven Sisters" and "Peter Pan"-namely, put manager and author in the way of profits which aggregate a liberal fortune.

The work of the society is not limited to Manhattan-in fact has only its small beginnings there. There is a large suburban population, on Long Island, in New Jersey, and in Westchester County, which would find the bulletins sent out by the league, the reduction of twenty per cent in the cost of good seats, and especially the facility afforded for securing them, a powerful stimulant to play-going. In the outer fringes of this area there are rural districts the inhabitants of which are reached by publishing the bulletins in local papers-papers the circulation of which aggregates one hundred and fifty thousand. If ably managed, the society should secure among its members a sale of seats large enough to insure that no good play adequately acted shall fail.

Meantime the drama leagues throughout the country have developed an almost national organization, led by the very able and active Chicago centre. Unlike the Drama Society of New York they merely recommend attendance, the members buying tickets or not, as they see fit. Yet the influence which they exert through their bulletins is very large. Chicago is also the home of The Theatre Society, a novel organization which is rapidly developing its activities. In its first year it supported a stock company, the Drama Players, which made nine productions, some of them of the very highest order artistically. The cost, however, was $35,000. Last year it had no stock company; but it held the lease of a theatre, and by offering a guarantee to productions already in existence it at tracted to Chicago plays that otherwise would not have gone there. In this way it stood sponsor for no less than thirtyfive productions, and the year's deficit was reduced to about fifteen thousand dollars. Like the Drama Society of New York it offers special terms for tickets to its members, but only in the case of the productions which are made under its guarantee.

All of these varied organizations work in harmony for the general good. Their efforts should be especially fruitful in promoting the success of good plays on the road, between the great dramatic centres. In small towns and one-night stands the business of the theatre has of late been virtually ruined. At best the general

level of productions has been lowered, and amid the clamorous vociferations of the press agents it has become impossible to learn in advance the true character of a production. Often a play which has been well worth seeing on Broadway is sent out with a cast so markedly inferior as to make it a weariness to the spirit. It is no part of the work of any of the organizations to disparage any production. Their aim is always constructive, never destructive. Whenever a road production is adequate, however, they are prepared to make the fact manifest to the play-goers of the road, working to this effect in collaboration with the advance agent.

Already many small cities have drama leagues. The central organizations cooperate with these, supplying not only bulletins but information as to the quality of the production as it is actually sent out from Broadway. In almost any town there are "the makings" of a league which, with modifications of the general scheme adapted to local conditions and ̧ necessities, will insure to the play-goer all the advantages received by members of the central organizations. The committees are willing to send out printed matter, even a lecturer and manager who will collaborate in forming the local organization. In many a town there are women well qualified to lead in such work, and a very considerable public of people of means who would gladly pledge themselves to support plays which are reasonably sure to prove good. The end of the present decade will in all probability see the organization of intelligent play-goers along all of the chief theatrical routes, from Broadway to San Francisco-a truly national organization of dramatic art.

Such an undertaking requires constant watchfulness and energy on the part of its managers. In the past the local leagues have been volunteer organizations, slenderly financed, and their work in some cases spasmodic. The Theatre Society of Chicago and the Drama Society of New York are liberally subsidized by committees of public-spirited men and women, to the end that their work shall be unremitting and business-like.

Much will be accomplished if such organizations succeed in rescuing for the intelligent public all of the plays of value which Broadway now produces; but the possi

bilities of the movement go far beyond this. According to an old saying, it takes a man of talent to write a good play but a man of genius to get it acted. Whatever strengthens the chance that an intelligent play will find out its proper audience strengthens also the chance of its production. The power of the drama society is obviously limited to friendly and helpful action; but for this very reason it is the strongest, the most decisive power that has ever been exerted in behalf of our dramatic art.

In the wilderness of the mid-Victorian drama Matthew Arnold cried out: "The theatre is irresistible. Organize the theatre!" He had in mind the Théâtre Français; but in America every attempt at founding a stock company thus far has failed, though each one has brought us nearer the goal. Ultimately, no doubt, the New Theatre idea will prevail; but to that end a more immediate opportunity demands attention. The first step toward organizing the theatre is to organize the public.

.THE POINT OF VIEW.

I

The Old Friendships

WONDER whether a recent contributor to "The Point of View" can be altogether right in saying that in this age of the open eye and the trained critical faculty a radical change has taken place in our friendships, and that we now not only choose our friends more carefully than in the easy-going days of old, but regard them critically and try to improve them after we have taken them-shall we say-to our hearts? The well-balanced and reasonable affection with which, as it seems, we regard them, scarcely involves such a quickening of the pulses as that expression would denote.

Even in the old times we were not absolutely and without exception undiscriminating, just as in the present age of criticism one finds here and there an impulsive person who enters rashly into an intimacy. Undoubtedly he who takes time to choose, who exercises "the great modern virtueselectiveness," is wise; yet there may be a happy intuition which transcends his slow wisdom. There really is such a thing as friendship at first sight-friendship in the highest sense; and it is not unreasonable to think that the more "psychologically wide-awake" we are, the more immediate may be our recognition of our friend in the stranger who comes to meet us. Under favorable auspices it may not take ten minutes to find that we speak the same language, that we are tuned to the same pitch; and that is the all-important thing. For al

though we have faults innumerable and glaring, although we even, at times, get on each other's nerves-if the note struck by one vibrates in the soul of the other, all these things count for nothing; unless, indeed, they count for everything. Friends or enemies we must be strangers never. I have experienced one such instantaneous friendship which has withstood the chances and changes of twenty years and has survived the inevitable discovery of faults on both sides. In this matter of selection I doubt whether we have changed very much. We have less mental leisure than we had in older and simpler times; we have more amusements and hosts of playfellows (and these, if you like, we criticise easily enough); we meet and part more casually, we take life less seriously, and we don't have time for many friendships; nevertheless, we have our friends, whom we do not, after all, choose very methodically.

As for our method of dealing with them, there is much to be said for the old way of taking them like good or bad weather-a thing which we cannot alter. There is something far finer in the old-fashioned loyalty which forbade us to discuss them, than in our willingness to listen to criticism of them and our pleasure in making them and their idiosyncrasies a subject of conversation

if, indeed, these things be true of us. It does not need a trained eye to see faults in a friend. The eye of affection is usually pretty keen, however blind it may pretend

to be in public; and we have always seen these faults, and may even have tried, more or less wisely, to mend them-an ungracious task. For my own part, I don't want to be a "constructive critic" of my friend. I want to take him as he is. Let other people dwell on his faults; I will turn my eyes aside. Surely, if he can put up with me, I can make shift to bear with him; and, if we are to improve each other, it must be unconsciously. The fineness of his character may inspire me, or I may have some quality which he likes well enough to emulate. Not but that, in the exigencies of intimate intercourse, we can be plain-spoken enough if the occasion demands. We may be able to tell each other home truths, we may even be on good quarrelling terms. As a woman once said to me of her closest friend: "F. and I get cross with each other sometimes very cross indeed; but we are simply obliged to get over it, you know.” But to scan one another's faults deliberately, and to set out in cold blood and with careful tact to express our adverse criticism with a view to improving one another, that is not, in my idea, what friendship is for. Friendship is for happiness, for comradeship, for the amelioration of the loneliness of human life, for the joy of an unselfish affection. It is no association for mutual improvement.

In every real friendship there is apt to occur a critical period, when the first enthusiasm has passed and the two become aware of each other's imperfections. If it can survive that crisis, it is good for a lifetime. Thank heaven, not even an indefinite increase of the critical faculty will have any effect on it.

E

DUCATION aplenty, but not so many eminent educators as of old; specialized teachers, splendidly equipped laboratories, and students counted in terms of thousands, but, inevitably, a decline in the personal influence of the professor; girls studying side by side with boys, or in big colleges of their own, and under similar conditions; plenty of sport for both boys and girls, but not much time for reading. Such seems to be the summing up of persons who remember the days of the giants-Agassiz, Gray, Peirce, Child, and the rest with whom, as one of their old students says, "we were in constant and in

A Centenary

timate relations as pupils after our freshman year." At the same time, the sisters of these boys were being educated by women of equal eminence.

The present year will see a quiet celebration of the centenary of one such woman— Sarah Porter, of Farmington, of whom, at the time of her death in 1900, Professor Sloane wrote: "She was one of the few conspicuous builders of character in the modern world."

There were always many who wondered what was the secret of Miss Porter's unique influence. Hers was one of the great intellects of her time, but it was not in that alone that the explanation lay. Nor yet was it entirely accounted for by the force, elevation, and ardor of her character. In personal appearance she was plain and unimposing, although even among strangers she commanded instant deference. In the technical details of study there were schools more thorough than hers, even at the time when the women's colleges were just coming into existence, and a girl's education was not the thoroughgoing affair that it is now. She spared no pains and no money to offer the best, but her regard for the individuality of her pupils was so great that it led her to discard, as far as possible, the machinery of education. More than usual it rested with the pupil whether she got much or little out of her stay at school. There was no fixed course of study, no graduation. On the other hand, there was a healthy sentiment in favor of learning one's lessons; and Miss Porter arranged each girl's list of studies personally.

Many visitors came to her, seeking to learn the "method" which had brought her such renown. To such as were after her own heart she willingly gave such help as could be given, but the sort of person who, in more ways than one, "meant business," would go away baffled by the very simplicity of it all. To one such inquirer Miss Porter was heard to say, in the mildest of tones: "I don't know that I have any particular method. am pretty arbitrary, and they all do as I say." In point of fact, her method varied with the varying characters of her girls, but it contained one unchanging element. She always idealized us. We all know how stimulating it is to be rated more highly than we deserve. From this came her one defect (if one choose to consider it so) as a teacher of elementary

I

subjects. She was too large for us. Her the "cheerful hopefulness" which she herfault, her inspiring fault, was the assump- self recognized as one of the elements of her tion that you knew more than you did, and success? The only time I ever saw her disthat you had something of her own quick-couraged was on an occasion when a former ness of apprehension. This did not make for thoroughness in such a matter as Latin grammar, for instance; but oh, how hard you tried to live up to her estimate of you! Considering that girls who left school at eighteen or nineteen were pretty sure to forget most of what they had learned from books, it does seem as if an ounce of inspiration under Miss Porter were worth a pound of Latin grammar under any one else. One did not so soon get over that impetus to the spirit.

The secret of her profound influence on us need not have been hard to discover, once you had experienced it; only that the young are often blind and are usually inarticulate as to the deeper things. It lay, of course, primarily in her own character, in the power of her intellect, the severity of her principles, the ardor and fidelity with which she pursued her lofty aims, the reverence and depth and enlightenment of her Christianity, and the tenderness of her affection. Add to this her divine power of idealization and how could we fail to be deeply and permanently impressed? Trifling and self-absorbed as we may have been, crude and unawakened as we could not help being, we yet could not but be conscious of her greatness; and when such a woman as this showed that she cared for you-for you, yourself, not for you just as one of her girls-and that she thought better of you than you deserved, it behooved you to rise above yourself and make good. What she taught by precept was much; what she taught by simply being herself was more; most compelling of all was her generous belief in us, forcing us upward by assuming that we already stood on a higher level than we had attained and that we were still aspiring. Needless to say that for such an inspiration to avail there must be some power of response. Wings there must be, even though they are but embryonic; but how few of us there are who have not those wings in embryo! The power which demands that they be unfurled is the great power in our lives. That power Miss Porter was to us. For herself, I think that this gift of idealization was a saving thing. If she had seen us quite as we were, how should she not have had her periods of enervating discouragement, how have kept unbroken

trusted pupil had felt impelled by conscience to confess some old sins of deception and disloyalty. Deception was the one sin which Miss Porter could not forgive, and, once her eyes were opened, there was no keener judge than she. She told us about it in her weekly talk. There was something in her tone when she spoke of her trust in that girl which penetrated our hearts; and when she said that it made her wonder whom she could trust, we felt that we could not forgive the person who had so shaken her confidence-a person whose name we naturally never knew. "I wish she had not told me," she ended; and we learned then that one has not always a right to shift a weight off one's conscience by confession; that the enduring burden is part of the punishment.

It was not in the nature of things that we should fully appreciate Miss Porter's character while we were still in the school. We were too young and undeveloped to take her measure. But the bond between us lasted all our lives, and the school was a home to which we never ceased to look back. She was always interested in us, always ready to write those wonderful letters, so full of wisdom and of overflowing affection, always ready to welcome us when we went to see her. We never ceased to be her "girls," even though we might become grandmothers.

I

Art and the Spirit of Place

T must occur to one sometimes to wonder what sensation the average, unimaginative citizen experiences who looks upon an Egyptian obelisk standing in Central Park, New York. An Egyptian obelisk is not really very impressive if viewed with an uninformed eye. If the sight does not bring a rich reaction from that part of one's brain where the appropriate ethnological, mythological, and historical suggestions are stored away, the interest aroused can be scarcely more than a transient impact on the surface-layer of curiosity. On the other hand, if the ancient shaft means something to the imagination, if you know enough about it to see it intelligently, the fact of seeing it in exile is apt to produce a sharp sense of discomfort. It may be true that not many people have

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