Jane English and the Troupe St. Denis

Says Sat matinee is at 3 pm.  “AGOUSTE AND CARAN [sic], in their Pantomimic Acts. . . . 27 Different Acts.  Singing, Dancing, Tableaux.”

Some performers.  “[T]he celebrated Troupe St. Denis, from the Theatre La Scala, Milan. . . . THE TWO BEST PANTOMIMISTS IN THE WORLD, HENRY AUGUST, JOSEF CARON. The ZANFRETTI FAMILY, ALEXANDER, the world-renowned Rope Artist. Mons. and Mme. MARTENAN, PAUL DONETTI, the beautiful boy YOUNG AMERICA, AUGUST MULLER, Mlle. HORTENSE, LOUISE ZANFRETTA, T.D. CORNE, the great English Comic Singer, Full Corps de Ballet. The opening Pantomime, first time in America, called LA FEE ADELINE; LA SKILLET, in which all the Company will appear. . . .  The whole Company in 27 different acts.”

“Mrs. Jane English’s experiment at Laura Keene’s Theatre has shared the fate of the Opera. The lieges watch it with apathy, and the critics with regret. As a consequence, the benches are temptingly and luxuriously vacant. To account for this state of things we must remember, first, that Laura Keene’s has ceased to be a popular theatre, and secondly, that Mrs. English is a stranger, whose claims to the honors of Metropolitan management have not yet been recognized. Our people, in the matter of amusements, are singularly jealous of outsiders. They view with ill-concealed annoyance the occasional raids of hardy and enthusiastic provincials. It is seldom that the invaders get off with bag and baggage. We know not the extent of Mrs. English’s ambition, but for a couple of months at least she proposes to give us a species of entertainment based on the Ravel model, with variations that seem to have been suggested by the circus. The performances on the opening night were not of a very promising character, but they have improved since. We begin to hope that Mrs. English may be successful. A novel entertainment on Broadway would indeed be a luxury to a craving community. Was there ever a city in the world with a million inhabitants so badly supplied with places of amusement as is New-York? In reality we have but one theatre on the west side of the town—Wallack’s; all the other places being mere show rooms and platforms for travelling ‘stars’ who revolve in their little orbits punctually enough, but without adding an inch to the space traversed. If it were not for a constant influx of healthy foreigners and of utterly indestructable [sic] natives from the East, the proud metropolis of the New World would speedily be depopulated and reduced to a howling wilderness by the fatal agony of its amusements, by the dreadful pressure of its tragedians, by the evil influence of the ‘stars.’ Without these robust classes to throw into the arena, we should be roared into fits and tore into pieces by the two-legged furies who there pant and perform. But providential as is this provision, there is an inconvenience about it. The robust classes like their entertainment a little savage, and they have been gratified with a vengeance. The noises of a five-act play are as varied and appalling as those that issue from a menagerie. The secret of our well wishes for Mrs. English and her success are thus revealed. Her artists do not speak and cannot howl. Moreover they must, as a rule, understand something of their profession, or they will flounder to the stage a mass of bruised and broken humanity—sorely punished, indeed, for their pretence [sic]. And here is an anomaly that the philosophic mind at once detects in the two professions of tight-rope dancer and tragedian. The one, by a false step, may injure himself grievously, but with true art instinct, to hide all that is painful from the public, he will deliver a hop, skip and jump, and wobble playfully off the stage, to be conveyed, mayhap, by tender hands to the nearest hospital. Not a complaint escapes his lips; his face is wreathed in smiles, even if his body be racked with pain. The other one—he who chalks his feet for tragedy, and goes on with Shakespeare as a long pole—howls, yells, and writhes steadily for three hours, although there is not a bone in his body broken, and he knows that when it is all over there will be cakes and ale for him at home. For a cheerful view of life, it is always necessary to go to those who are in the greatest danger of losing it. And this brings us back to Laura Keene’s Theatre, where, in addition to two remarkable performers on the tight-rope—Mlle. Rosita and Alexander Zanfretta—the lady manager has also provided us with a couple of wonderful gymnasts—Prof. Donette and Young America—and an Italian singer—Signor Montenare—who gives buffo scenes very acceptably, and a couple of dancers and a German violinist, who can imitate every thing except music, and finally, a ballet pantomimic company. Of this latter we can only say, that it has improved in the interval between Monday and Saturday. The quick precision, and brief but intelligible dumb show of the Ravels, were not attained in a day. Mrs. English’s pantomimists are profuse. They deliver an oration where they should only utter an exclamation; they are for ever scrambling about the stage; and stamp a great deal more than is good for them. An exception should however be made in favor of Señor Caron, a comic artist of talent, who will, we think, improve on acquaintance. In the ‘Maison Rouge’ he was not always funny, although he tried to be so, but in the bed-room scene, and in the final opportunity of the piece, he was excellent. Let us add that there is an excellent orchestra, and repeat that we hope Mrs. English will succeed. Anything as a relief to the necessity of going to a ‘star’ theatre will be acceptable. Above all things we want variety, and when that is provided there will be room for a dozen more theatres in New-York. To-night, a prodigy, named Angelo, makes his first appearance, and will ‘perform his Icarean feat on the cloud swing.’ We hope that the poor child may not meet with the fate of Icarus.”