Mr. Daniel Frohman, the theatrical manager, to distinguish himself from whom Mr. Charles Frohman bills his name with an emphatic score under the “Charles,” has achieved for the drama something dignified enough to be called an episode. He saw what Mr. Beerbohm Tree, Mr. George Alexander, Mr. Richard Mansfield and others denied—that Mr. Anthony Hope’s novel, _The Prisoner of Zenda_, needed very little mending to make a play of the first class. For this lonely act Mr. Frohman richly deserves a monument in Fourth avenue opposite his templar Lyceum. A Daniel certainly came to judgment. _Zenda_ on the stage is great. Mr. Edward Rose, who made the play, has not attempted to clear up the moats and castles and bridges, which in an infantry novel I never could understand, but he has made very human beings and used a precious lot of Mr. Hope’s dialogue. _Zenda_ has a bad ending. There is no question about that. I can just imagine my friend, Mr. Adv. W. Bok, sitting through the martyr separation of Rassendyll and Flavia and scuffling away thinking “Ugh, how mean!” People that croak over Mercutio’s untimely taking off are of the same ilk; and they wish _A Tale of Two Cities_ ended happily. Mean, are these nobilities. Rupert in the play, scornful-merry, thinks it is the meanest ending possible; and chained he goes laughing away, taunting Rassendyll with being the biggest of fools for giving up love and a kingdom for honor’s sake. Fritz thinks not, though. Manfully he strides up to Rassendyll, a great chunk of grief on his palate, and taking the unwounded hand, shakes it fiercely and silently, as if his allegiance were bound with that clasp, and when he let go he would be a traitor forever. And when he goes away, old Sapt comes; and he thinks not, like Fritz. He grips the “lad’s” hand while a tear falls on the bloody bandage Rassendyll wears, and a magnet somewhere somehow snaps his loyal old knee to the floor in reverence for this “lad” that ought to be king if he isn’t. Flavia? She thinks not, too. She is not to die, like Camille, but is doomed to a more horrible tragedy: she must live on. She speaks the brave, spirit-crushing word that decrees the parting, and Rassendyll goes away, too. The red badge of courage is on his rag-slung arm, and there is a royal Vestal flame in his agonizing heart. “Is love the only thing?” The tear-blinded eyes of many a spectator of Mr. Sothern and Miss Kimball’s sweet and pathetic performance testify that the average man or woman thinks, yes. I don’t know. * * * * * In a late number of the Paris edition of the New York _Herald_ I find this: “According to the new etymology a Philistine is one who believes in health, good cheer and manly self reliance as opposed to languid, mawkish sentimentality—that sure breeder of refined vice and degeneracy.” I really could not put the matter better than this myself. * * * * *