Mr. Alfred Wigan, one of the most accomplished of modern
actors, has opened a new and very beautiful little theatre on the site of St. Martin's Hall,—the Queen's. The decoration is very good, the stalls are roomy, and there is no crushing in passing before stalls already filled. The "new romantic play," however, with which Mr. Wigan has begun, is by no means good,—the plot a strained French plot of the most unnatural kind,—and the best characters in it are assigned to very imperfect actors. Mr. Wigan himself has nothing of interest to act. Miss Ellen Terry, indeed, acted the lively heroine with exquisite playfulness, and con- fided her teazing propensities to her sister in the startling dramatic form, " rm not a saint, like you—I'm a devil," with charming vivacity and sweetness. But she failed entirely in the tragedy,— where she has to proclaim herself (falsely) the mother of her sister's child, in order to screen that sister, who is privately married. There Was neither struggle nor passion in the declara- tion. Miss Addison, who acted a part apparently intended for Min; Kate 'ferry, and who imitated feebly every characteristic movement of that flue actress, just touched power in the scene of the e'claircissement, but till then acted very painfully. Mr. Wynd- ham and Mr. Brough were better, but the play, on the whole, is poor. Mr. A. Wigan, it is said, makes a very fine Shylock. Why does he not give us the Merchant of Venice 7 Miss Ellen Terry would make a perfect Portia.
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