At the Plymouth on Monday, the first appearance here of Margaret Anglin in "The Woman of Bronze", from the French of Kistmaeeker. Whoever was present at the opening performance could not but have been impressed with the high standard set by some of our leading emotional actors and actresses. A finely balanced company, exceptionally well cast, wrung from the marital unfaithfulness of a young artist (why is it they are so frequently artists) every possible ounce of its somewhat standardized sentiment. In a set which was well conceived, though badly lighted in the second act, the whole company moved with that machine like smoothness which is at once the delight and the bane of the initiated observer. The united product of designer, producer and actors at times approached perfection.

If, therefore, the Piece seemed unreal and consequently unsatisfactory, the fault lies with those old masters, Racine and Corneille, who so effectively bound the drama of their native land to the chariot-wheels of Convention. Indeed, most of the contemporary French work which filters through to this country shows that lack of spontaneity which results from adapting life to the stage and not the stage to life. Nor are Kistmaecker and the adaptor--Paul Kester--any exceptions to the rule: for while the dialogue is occasionally interesting, the plot is hopelessly stereotyped. Thus such lines as, "Pan--that gay little goatlegged god with so much pep"; "The poet who sent me a song written on asbestos", and "This is not dancing--it's osteopathy", received the laughs they merited. But when at the close of the second act the outraged wife turned on the "other woman" with a dagger, and is only diverted from her highly original purpose by the "higher claim" of the latter, we wondered whether we had not blundered into a performance of "East Lynne" by mistake. The "higher claim" died in the third act (we knew it would), but not before the wayward hubby had treated us to that choice antique "Forgive me if you can". Somehow we scarcely left inclined to do so. Last but not least, the audience indulged itself liberally in our great American indoor sport repeated curtain calls after every act (except the last).

Under the most insuperable burden of a trite play the actors conducted themselves most courageously. Miss Anglin, of course, was beyond compare, and, in addition, several of the other parts were exceptionally well taken. First and foremost the acting of Max Montesole as "Patrick Griggs" stands out. As a cultivated and altogether lovable, if none too clear-witted Irishman--the trusted friend of Vivian Hunt (Miss Anglin) through all her trouble--he had many chances to overact which he scrupulously avoided. Indeed the entire cast was notable for its restraint. Mary Courtney (Marion Barney) played with conspicuous naturalness, while Harry Barfoot as "Papa Bonelli" gave some excellen character touches. All that can be done to "put the play across" the company does, and we can only place ourselves with the host of Miss Anglin's friends who regret that she should be wasting her splendid powers and company on this particular speciment of the conventional French melodrama.