Ruth Draper is, of course, unique. No one, at any
rate, whom I have ever heard, or heard of, possesses any comparable faculty. Miss Draper's capacity to take possession of a full-size stage—in this case the Haymarket's—and by the vividness of her impersona- tions people it, all but visibly, with the creatures of her imagination— is indeed a perpetual marvel. The course of time being powerless to wither her—that would be fantastic—or custom to sfale her all but infinite variety, she continues to bring out of her treasures things new and old. " Opening the Bazaar " is, of course, old. So is " Three Women and Mr. Clifford." The "Boston Picture Gallery," one of the best of the whole repertory, is probably not new, though it was new to me. So was the " German Governess," who perhaps replaces the familiar " Italian Lesson." On the evening when I was at the Haymarket last week the choice of sketches supplied examples of Miss Draper in perfect English, perfect Scottish, perfect American (" A Porch in Maine "), perfect French, and what I have no sort of doubt was perfect Bulgarian, in the passionate " Love in the Balkans." I find it hard to believe that London this month provides any entertainment as gifted and delightful as Miss Draper offers.
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