Ectoplasm has appeared before on the theatrical bill of fare, but the dish now being served at the Wilbur,--ectoplasm taken with a pinch of salt, stirred up with a dash of satire, and blending judiciously with melodrama,--will tempt the most play-weary palate.

"Listening In" has many exciting moments. Indeed, as Jonathan Cumberland remarks to Mr. Morrison in the Prologue, "The action begins the moment you move in here." A house abandoned for twenty years lends manifold opportunities for holding the audience breathless, and if the thrills, like those of a roller-coaster, generally bring up short with a laugh, no one is the worse for it. Even the announced intention of the mysterious Mr. Morrison at the outset to prove that all spiritualism is the work of human hands does not impair the goose-fleshy qualities of Bleeker Hall. The fact that the audience is on the stage from the start, that there is none of the uncomfortable five minutes usually spent in backing and filling until the craft gets under weigh, is evidence enough of "Listening In's" skillful workmanship.

That somewhat evanescent figure,--especially in Boston,--the theatre-going public wants to be harrowed or amused, The long and useful life of the "niftiest" mystery play, "The Bat", was ample proof of the popularity of the first. But even the theatre-going public, beyond a certain point, like Mr. Coomber in "Listening In", refuses to be frightened by something which it does not believe in. Ectoplasm, mysterious appearances, clutching hands, automatic writing, all serve their purpose in conducting hair-calisthenics. But to have them poked at half in earnest, half in mild satire, combines both the successful elements of horror and amusement.

"Listening In" singles out the much discussed spirit influence, takes it apart slowly and reduces it to highly laughable absurdity. The predicament of John Coomber, recipient of spirit warnings of train wrecks and tips on the stock exchange is truly pathetic. His unhappy question, "Am I to become a clearing house for human mistakes?" would bring tears,--tears of merriment,--to the eyes of any audience.

It is unfortunate that a third act-- for explanations--had to be added but the situations throughout are clever, as should be expected in any play of Carlyle Moore's. The lines, it might be added, get across sometimes in spite of the actors. Except for Mr. Glendenning, who takes the part of the spirit-harrassed hero, and Mr. Stubbs as his partner in affairs of this world and the next, the cast is mediocre