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Chapter 6
Modeling Random Data & Noise
6.1 Problems
Problem 6.1 (Sample mean, variance, and SD) Let the RV X produce the following nx = 10 real-
izations:
1.7, −0.8, −0.6, 0.5, 0.3, −0.5, 0.8, −0.1, 0.9, −0.7
Compute the sample mean, variance, and SD.
(ans:
Sample mean:
1.7 − 0.8 − 0.6 + 0.5 + 0.3 − 0.5 + 0.8 − 0.1 + 0.9 − 0.7
Ave(Xi ) = = 0.15
10
Sample variance: V ar(Xi ) = Ave(Xi2 ) − [Ave(Xi )]2
2.89 + 0.64 + 0.36 + 0.25 + 0.9 + 0.25 + 0.64 + 0.01 + 0.81 + 0.49
Ave(Xi2 ) = = 0.724
10
V ar(Xi ) = 0.724 − 0.0225 = 0.7015
Sample SD: √
SD(Xi ) = V ar(Xi ) = 0.838
)
Problem 6.2 (Probability that Y lies in [0.25,0.75)) What is the probability that the RV Y that is uni-
formly distributed over [0,1), will lie in the range [0.25, 0.75)?
(ans: The area from x = 0.25 to x = 0.75 = 0.5.

)
Problem 6.3 (Probability that Y lies in [0.25,2)) What is the probability that the RV Y that is uni-
formly distributed over [0,1), will lie in the range [0.25,2)?
(ans: The area from x = 0.25 to x = 2 under the PDF that extends over [0,1] is the same as the area
from x = 0.25 to x = 1 = 0.75 .
)
55
© 2015 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
56 CHAPTER 6. MODELING RANDOM DATA & NOISE
Problem 6.4 (Simulating random die toss) Starting with realizations of Y , how would you form T ,
the RV that simulates the result of a fair die toss, which equals the number of dots showing on the top
face? Sketch the PMF of T .
(ans:
Y extends over [0,1).
6Y extends over [0,6).
T = Ceil(6Y ) is the integer set [1,6].
The PMF of T :
1 2 3 4 5 6
Problem 6.5 (Adding 1 to Y ) Starting with RV Y , we add 1 to each value we observe to form
X =1+Y
2 and sketch p (x).
Compute µX , σX X
(ans:
=0.5
z}|{
µX = µY +1 = µY +1 = 1.5
2 1
σX = σY2 +1 = σY2 =
12
pX (x):
0 1 2
Problem 6.6 (Adding 1 to G) Starting with standardized RV G, add 1 to each value to form
X =1+G
2 and sketch p (x).
Compute µX , σX X
(ans:
=0
z}|{
µX = µG+1 = µG +1 = 1
6.1. PROBLEMS 57
2 2 2
σX = σG+1 = σG =1
pX (x):
σ =1
-1 0 1 2 3
Problem 6.7 (Multiplying Y by 2) Starting with RV Y that is uniformly distributed over [0,1), multi-
ply each value to form
Z = 2Y
Compute µZ , σZ2 and sketch pZ (x).
(ans:
=0.5
z}|{
µZ = µ2Y = 2 µY = 1
4 1
σZ2 = σ2Y
2
= 4σY2 = =
12 3
pZ (x):
1/2
0 1 2
Problem 6.8 (Multiplying G by 2) Starting with standardized Gaussian RV G, multiply each value
by 2 to form
Z = 2G
Compute µZ , σZ2 and sketch pZ (x).
(ans:
=0
z}|{
µZ = µ2G = 2 µG = 0
σZ2 = σ2G
2 2
= 4σG =4
p (x)
G σ =1
-2 -1 0 1 2
p (x)
Z
σ =2
-4 -3 -2 -1 0 1 2 3 4
Problem 6.9 (Summing two independent standardized Gaussian RV s) Starting with independent stan-
dardized Gaussian RV s G1 and G2 , form
V = 2(G1 + 1) − (G2 − 1)
Compute µV , σV2 and pV (x).
(ans:
V = 2(G1 + 1) − (G2 − 1) = 2G1 + 2 − G2 + 1 = 2G1 − G2 + 3
=0 =0
z}|{ z}|{
µV = µ2G1 −G2 +3 = µV = 2 µG1 − µG2 +3 = 3
=1 =1
z}|{ z}|{
σV2 = 2
σ2G1 −G2 +3
= 2
σ2G1 −G2
= 4 σG2
1
+(−1) 2 2
σG2 = 5
When adding Gaussian RV , the resulting P DF remains Gaussian and is completely specified by the
mean and standard deviation.
p (x)
G σ =1
-2 -1 0 1 2
p (x)
V
σ =(5)1/2 = 2.23
-1 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7
6.2. EXCEL PROJECTS 59
6.2 Excel Projects

Project 6.1 (Random numbers using RAND()) Extend Example 13.28 to generate nY = 25 random
numbers Yi for 0 ≤ i ≤ 24, and compute the sample averages. Observe how the sample averages
change as a new set of random numbers is generated.
(ans:
A B C D
1 i Yi
2 0 0.683
3 1 0.875 SampleAve=
4 2 0.279 0.487
5 3 0.380
6 4 0.606 SampleSD=
7 5 0.347 0.306
8 6 0.716
9 7 0.072 SampleVar=
10 8 0.397 0.094
11 9 0.876
12 10 0.216
13 11 0.785
14 12 0.985
15 13 0.470
16 14 0.360
17 15 0.245
18 16 0.029
19 17 0.772
20 18 0.014
21 19 0.232
22 20 0.833
23 21 0.593
24 22 0.099
25 23 0.955
26 24 0.357
A B C D
1 i Yi
2 0 =RAND()
3 =A2+1 =RAND() SampleAve=
4 =A3+1 =RAND() =AVERAGE(B2:B26)
5 =A4+1 =RAND()
6 =A5+1 =RAND() SampleSD=
7 =A6+1 =RAND() =STDEV.S(B2:B26)
8 =A7+1 =RAND()
9 =A8+1 =RAND() SampleVar=
10 =A9+1 =RAND() =VAR(B2:B26)
Project 6.2 (Two Random Dice) Extend Example 13.30 to simulate the toss of two dice, D1i and D2i
for 0 ≤ i ≤ 24, and add the observed values together. Observe how the sums change as another set of
random numbers is generated.
(ans:
A B C D E F
1 i Y1i Y2i D1i D2i Sum
2 0 0.424 0.787 3 5 8
3 1 0.809 0.045 5 1 6
4 2 0.324 0.692 2 5 7
5 3 0.801 0.422 5 3 8
6 4 0.011 0.703 1 5 6
7 5 0.349 0.376 3 3 6
8 6 0.073 0.294 1 2 3
9 7 0.965 0.536 6 4 10
10 8 0.573 0.028 4 1 5
11 9 0.606 0.720 4 5 9
12 10 0.812 0.900 5 6 11
13 11 0.719 0.280 5 2 7
14 12 0.554 0.141 4 1 5
15 13 0.210 0.955 2 6 8
16 14 0.655 0.293 4 2 6
17 15 0.121 0.438 1 3 4
18 16 0.791 0.885 5 6 11
19 17 0.701 0.089 5 1 6
20 18 0.865 0.534 6 4 10
21 19 0.593 0.245 4 2 6
22 20 0.757 0.224 5 2 7
23 21 0.484 0.564 3 4 7
24 22 0.796 0.686 5 5 10
25 23 0.083 0.004 1 1 2
26 24 0.216 0.561 2 4 6
A B C D E F
1 i Y1i Y2i D1i D2i Sum
2 0 =RAND() =RAND() =CEILING(6*B2,1) =CEILING(6*C2,1) =D2+E2
Project 6.3 (Histogram of uniformly-distributed random numbers) Using Example 13.32 as a guide
generate a histogram of ten thousand random numbers produced by RAND().
(ans: The problem involves setting up the proper bin intervals in C and computing the bin number,
corresponding to the row number in D, from the random number generated in A2. The example shows
dividing the interval [0,1) into 10 bins, and including the adjacent bins to illustrate their zero counts.
Note that FLOOR must be used, as ROUND produces half-counts in the two limit bins.
A B C D A B C D
1 Y i= bin count 1 Y i= bin count
2 0.53448142 Ͳ0.1 0 2 =RAND() Ͳ0.1 0
3 0 929 3 =C2+0.1 1000
4 i= 0.1 1058 4 i= =C3+0.1 1006
5 10000 0.2 1025 5 10000 =C4+0.1 1000
6 0.3 972 6 =C5+0.1 1010
7 nX= 0.4 944 7 nX= =C6+0.1 952
8 10000 0.5 1028 8 10000 =C7+0.1 989
9 0.6 1011 9 =C8+0.1 975
10 bin#= 0.7 963 10 bin#= =C9+0.1 1009
11 8 0.8 1032 11 =3+FLOOR(10*A2,1) =C10+0.1 1046
12 0.9 1038 12 =C11+0.1 1013
13 Hist 1 0 13 Hist =C12+0.1 0
14 1.1 0 14 =C13+0.1 0
Sub hist()
Dim Val As Integer ’ define an integer variable
Range("D2:D14").Value = 0 ’ reset bin counts
Range("A5").Value = 0 ’ reset counter i
Do While Range("A5").Value < Range("A8").Value ’ loop for nX times
Val = Range("A11").Value ’ get bin value
If Val > 1 Then ’ if valid bin value
Range("D" & Val).Value = Range("D" & Val).Value + 1 ’ incr bin count
End If
Range("A5").Value = Range("A5").Value + 1 ’ increment counter i
Loop
End Sub
Project 6.4 (Random Gaussian noise) Extend Example 13.33 to generate nN = 25 random numbers
Ni for 0 ≤ i ≤ 24 and compute the sample averages. Combine columns B and C to form Ni with a
single formula using the PRNG. Observe how the sample averages change as another set of random
numbers is generated.
(ans:
A B C D
1 ʍN= 4
2
3 i Ni
4 0 Ͳ4.401
5 1 Ͳ0.931 SampleAve=
6 2 5.052 0.509
7 3 4.673
8 4 3.157 SampleSD=
9 5 Ͳ4.978 3.959
10 6 Ͳ1.091
11 7 4.841 SampleVar=
12 8 4.215 15.673
13 9 3.565
14 10 2.109
15 11 Ͳ1.378
16 12 Ͳ2.788
17 13 5.537
18 14 4.461
19 15 Ͳ0.966
20 16 4.473
21 17 1.705
22 18 Ͳ5.163
23 19 Ͳ1.696
24 20 1.914
25 21 0.483
26 22 Ͳ8.931
27 23 Ͳ3.951
28 24 2.801
A B C D
1 ʍN= 4
2
3 i Ni
4 0 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND())
5 =A4+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) SampleAve=
6 =A5+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =AVERAGE(B4:B28)
7 =A6+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND())
8 =A7+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) SampleSD=
9 =A8+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =STDEV.S(B4:B28)
10 =A9+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND())
11 =A10+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) SampleVar=
12 =A11+1 =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =VAR(B4:B28)
Project 6.5 (Noisy digital die-toss signals) Using Example 13.34 as a guide, compose a worksheet
that generates 25 samples of random data corresponding to a die toss that is corrupted by additive
random Gaussian noise with σN = 0.2
(ans: The issues here involve formatting the amplitude in the plot. Because almost all Gaussian values
fall within [-3σ, 3σ] of the mean, for σ = 0.2 the y scale range should be [(1-0.6)=0.4, (6+0.6)=6.6].
A B C D E F G H I J K L M
1 ʍN= 0.2
2
6.4
3 i Di Ni Si=Di+Ni
4 0 2 0.109 2.109 5.9
5 1 2 Ͳ0.018 1.982
6 2 5 0.126 5.126 5.4
7 3 3 0.268 3.268
8 4 1 0.021 1.021 4.9
9 5 5 Ͳ0.070 4.930
10 6 4 0.061 4.061 4.4
11 7 5 0.010 5.010
12 8 5 Ͳ0.179 4.821 3.9
13 9 4 Ͳ0.078 3.922
14 10 2 0.047 2.047 Di
3.4
15 11 2 Ͳ0.158 1.842 Si=Di+Ni
16 12 6 0.197 6.197 2.9
17 13 3 0.287 3.287
18 14 5 Ͳ0.223 4.777 2.4
19 15 3 Ͳ0.472 2.528
20 16 3 0.034 3.034 1.9
21 17 3 Ͳ0.220 2.780
22 18 2 Ͳ0.180 1.820 1.4
23 19 1 0.122 1.122
24 20 6 Ͳ0.031 5.969 0.9
25 21 1 Ͳ0.026 0.974
26 22 5 Ͳ0.099 4.901 0.4
27 23 5 Ͳ0.014 4.986 0 5 10 15 20
28 24 2 0.022 2.022
A B C D
3 i Di Ni Si=Di+Ni
4 0 =CEILING(6*RAND(),1) =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =B4+C4
5 =A4+1 =CEILING(6*RAND(),1) =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =B5+C5
Project 6.6 (Thresholding noisy binary signals) Extend Example 13.35 to form 20 samples of ran-
dom binary data that is corrupted by additive random Gaussian noise with specified σN . Attempt to
determine the data from Si by applying a threshold τ = 0.5 to estimate the data value. Repeatedly
generate new data. Determine the σN value that typically produces 1 error is the 20 values of Si .
(ans:
A B C D E F
1 ʍN= 0.3
2
3 i Bi Ni Si=Bi+Ni ~Bi Error
4 0 1 Ͳ0.316 0.684 1 0
5 1 1 Ͳ0.489 0.511 1 0
6 2 1 Ͳ0.429 0.571 1 0
7 3 1 0.028 1.028 1 0
8 4 0 0.212 0.212 0 0
9 5 0 0.122 0.122 0 0
10 6 0 0.416 0.416 0 0
11 7 1 Ͳ0.184 0.816 1 0
12 8 0 0.394 0.394 0 0
13 9 0 Ͳ0.160 Ͳ0.160 0 0
14 10 1 Ͳ0.239 0.761 1 0
15 11 1 Ͳ0.022 0.978 1 0
16 12 1 Ͳ0.890 0.110 0 1
17 13 1 Ͳ0.180 0.820 1 0
18 14 1 0.548 1.548 1 0
19 15 1 0.484 1.484 1 0
20 16 1 Ͳ0.090 0.910 1 0
21 17 1 Ͳ0.189 0.811 1 0
22 18 0 0.088 0.088 0 0
23 19 1 0.148 1.148 1 0
A B C D E F
3 i Bi Ni Si=Bi+Ni ~Bi Error
4 0 =IF(RAND()<0.5,0,1) =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =B4+C4 =IF(D4<0.5,0,1) =IF(B4<>E4,1,0)
5 =A4+1 =IF(RAND()<0.5,0,1) =$B$1*NORM.S.INV(RAND()) =B5+C5 =IF(D5<0.5,0,1) =IF(B5<>E5,1,0)
Project 6.7 (Histogram of noisy binary signals) Using Example 13.32 as a guide generate a histogram
of ten thousand noisy binary signals.
(ans: The random binary data takes on values of +1 and -1 computed in B1. The corresponding signal
is computed in D2. The noise standard deviation is specified in B3. The Sd is convenient for setting the
histogram limits. The Gaussian noise sample is computed in D3, and the signal plus noise is formed in
D4.
The histogram extends from hist min to hist max (= − hist min) and its parameters are computed
in the worksheet. The hist min value in A9 is computed from A and σN as hist min = −A − 4σN )) to
effectively guarantee that it will be less than the minimum Xi value encountered. The number of bins is
specified by the user in B9. The bin width is computed in C9 as −2( hist min)/(# bins-1). The bin number
of an observed value is the row number is the histogram display and is computed as rounded((Xi value
minus hist min)/bin width) +2 in C6 as
=ROUND((D4-A9)/C9,0)+2
This allows the verification of the bin number for each manual observation (produce by F9).
A B C D E F G
1 D= Ͳ1 bin count
2 A= 10 Si= Ͳ10.00 Ͳ18 0
3 ʍN= 2 Ni= 0.42 Ͳ16 8
4 Xi=Si+Ni Ͳ9.58 Ͳ14 40
5 nT= i= bin#= Ͳ12 112
6 1000 1000 6 Ͳ10 200
7 Ͳ8 113
8 histmin= #bins= width= Ͳ6 26
9 Ͳ18 19 2 Ͳ4 3
10 Ͳ2 0
11 0 0
12 2 0
13 Hist 4 3
14 6 32
15 8 114
16 10 215
17 12 101
18 14 33
19 16 0
20 18 0
A B C D
1 D= =2*ROUND(RAND(),0)Ͳ1
2 A= 10 Si= =B1*B2
3 ʍN= 2 Ni= =B3*NORM.S.INV(RAND())
4 Xi=Si+Ni =D2+D3
5 nT= i= bin#=
6 1000 1000 =ROUND((D4ͲA9)/C9,0)+2
7
8 histmin= #bins= width=
9 =ͲROUND(B2+4*B3,0) 19 =ͲROUND(2*A9/(B9Ͳ1),0)
Performing most of the computations in the worksheet allows the following VBA code to be relatively
simple.
Sub hist()
Dim Val As Integer
Range("B6").Value = 0 ’ Reset counter i
For Val = 1 To Range("B9").Value ’ Set Hist Bin Vals
Range("F" & 1 + Val).Value = Range("A9").Value + (Val - 1) * Range("C9").Value
Range("G" & 1 + Val).Value = 0 ’ Initialize counts
Next
Do While Range("B6").Value < Range("A6").Value ’ loop for nT times
Val = Round((Range("D4").Value - Range("A9").Value) / Range("C9").Value) + 2 ’bin value
If Val > 1 Then ’ if valid bin value
Range("G" & Val).Value = Range("G" & Val).Value + 1 ’ incr bin count
End If
Range("B6").Value = Range("B6").Value + 1 ’ increment counter i
Loop
End Sub
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indeed, they are allowed to play upon nature’s green carpet, and the
privilege might well be extended without injury to the park.
PLAYS AND PLAYERS OF THE DAY.
By Morris Bacheller.
FRANCIS WILSON.
Of the two great divisions of the drama, tragedy is today surprisingly

similar to what it was in the days of the ancient Greeks, while
comedy has in the mean time been the subject of a remarkable
evolution. That evolution has proceeded with especial rapidity within
recent years. To find the best and noblest exemplifications of tragedy
we have to go back two centuries to the master works of
Shakespeare. A few exceptional comedies there are of Sheridan’s or
Goldsmith’s, whose popularity has not diminished with the lapse of
time, though many generations have come and gone since they
were penned. But they may be counted upon the fingers of a single
hand, and only serve to emphasize the rarity of comedies that can
hold the boards for more than a few seasons.
The development of comedy, and especially of its more farcical
branches, is, indeed, the chief feature of recent dramatic history.
Attribute it to a reaction from the increased tension of modern
business life, or assign what sociological cause you will, the fact
remains that the general demand is for plays whose aim and object
is to amuse. It cannot be maintained that this tendency is restricted
to the less educated class of theater goers. On the contrary, it is at
houses that are especially frequented by people of wealth and
fashion that the supremacy of comedy is most assured. Melodrama
is still the most drawing card in the theaters patronized by the lower
million.
The advance of comedy has been multiform. Farces of greater
ingenuity and more sustained brilliance of workmanship are written
by the playwrights of today than by their forerunners. They are
interpreted upon the boards by more finished artists, and with a
stage setting that constantly becomes more complete and costly.
The comedian has a higher professional and even social standing
now than a generation ago, and he may secure a much greater
degree of renown, with its financial accompaniment of ample
earnings. And all this arises from the workings of the old law of
supply and demand. Every art that can contribute to the
embellishment of its presentation becomes the handmaid of comedy.
Music is pressed into its service, and the result is that characteristic
phase of latter day theatricals, the burletta.
There was a time, and not so very long ago, when the
predecessors of Francis Wilson and De Wolf Hopper were set down
as “low comedians,” and relegated to an artistic rank slightly superior
to that of the circus clown. Every one knows the contrast in the
position of the modern apostles of Momus. Attend the theaters, read
the newspapers, listen to the comment of the club rooms, and you
will speedily be convinced that they are the theatrical lions of the
hour, that among all the constellations of the dramatic firmament
their planet is in the ascendant. Nor is there anything in this state of
affairs to justify the pessimistic philosopher in an outcry against the
alleged decadence of the stage. The popular taste for comedy is
neither a degraded nor a perverted one, and the success of its
leading exponents has been won upon their merits.
The comic star rises to the zenith by an ascent as difficult and
laborious as that which leads to high rank in any other profession.
Ars est celare artem, and the apparently easy spontaneity with which
he develops the humor of a stage situation is the fruit of
conscientious study and persistent practice. There are no more
painstaking actors than the two typical burlesquers who as the
Regent of Siam and the Merry Monarch have during the recent
months reigned successively at the Broadway Theater, New York.
Francis Wilson, who recently succeeded his brother potentate, has
worked his way up from the lowest rounds of the theatrical ladder.
His first appearance was with Sandford’s minstrel company in a
sketch called “The Brians,” which was played in Philadelphia. Young
as he was—only a boy in his teens—Wilson made something of a
hit. This was enough to secure him plenty of remunerative
engagements with minstrel troupes, as a member of which he
traveled all over the country. He was ambitious, however, for work of
a higher order, and to secure a foothold upon the legitimate stage he
undertook a minor part in a company that appeared at the Chestnut
Street Theater, in Philadelphia. Here again his talents declined to
conceal themselves under a bushel. In the role of Lamp, a broken
down actor in “Wild Oats,” he carried with him upon the stage an old
foil, the last relic of better days, and from this seemingly unpromising
article he managed to extract so much quiet humor that the audience
was convulsed and the star of the piece entered a formal complaint
at this interference with his supremacy.
DE WOLF HOPPER.
The following years saw the young actor steadily advancing in his
art, but experiencing various ups and downs of fortune, which wound
up with the “stranding” of his company, Mitchell’s Pleasure Party, in
San Francisco. Next he reappeared in Philadelphia—let us hope that
he was not obliged to reach it on foot—as a member of the McCaull
troupe, with which he played in his first comic opera, “The Queen’s
Lace Handkerchief.”
From this point his career has been one of uncheckered
prosperity. He was speedily recognized as a comic opera star of no
ordinary luster. In such standard parts as that of Cadeaux in Erminie
he achieved a reputation and a popularity that finally led him to
organize a company of his own, with which he has even eclipsed his
previous successes in “The Oolah” and “The Merry Monarch.”
De Wolf Hopper’s popularity has been won still more rapidly than
that of his brother comedian. He is the youngest of our successful
actors, as well as one of the most original in his methods, but he has
been upon the boards long enough to gain a thorough dramatic
training and a varied experience. It was his enthusiasm for private
theatricals, and his success in them, that led him upon the
professional stage—in spite of the fact that he had been educated
for the law. He was only twenty when, in 1880, he appeared as the
leading spirit of the Criterion Comedy Company, which had a fair
measure of prosperity, presenting such standard plays as “Caste”
and “Our Boys.” When it disbanded he was successively with
Edward Harrigan in “The Blackbird,” and at the Madison Square
Theater under the management of Daniel Frohman. At this latter
house, in the parts of Pittacus Green in “Hazel Kirke,” and Oliver
Hathaway in “May Blossom,” he gained the approbation of
metropolitan theater goers to a degree that was greatly enhanced
during the next five years, which he passed as a member of the
McCaull opera company. His last season with that organization was
marked by a success as Casimir in “Clover” that showed an advance
upon anything he had previously done. “Wang,” which was so
notably well received at the Broadway Theater during the past
summer, was his first independent venture.
MODJESKA AS ROSALIND.
There are those who cherish the idea that the continued success
of actors like Messrs. Wilson and Hopper is largely due to the
prestige of their reputation and the indulgence shown by the public
toward established favorites. They tell us that it matters little what
may be the merits of the piece or its staging, the star is sure to have
a following sufficient to fill the box office with a golden stream. He
might almost as well dispense with the libretto altogether, they say,
for as soon as he opens his lips to speak the audience roars with
laughter.
MODJESKA AS PORTIA.
So far as it denies the necessity for care and labor, thought and
skill, in the preparation and presentation of a farce, this theory is
fundamentally mistaken. It has again and again been proved that no
names upon the playbill, however eminent, can make a poor play
successful. The theater going public may not be infallible, but it is too
discriminating to accept an unpalatable article because it bears a title
of repute. The later popularity of “The Oolah” has obliterated
recollection of the fact that on its first night its reception was not
enthusiastic. The critics thought and said that Wilson had made a
mistake. But the comedian set himself at work to improve the piece,
cutting here, adding there, and interlining and changing until in a
hundred small but yet not unimportant points it was a different and a
better play. This is merely a single example of those expenditures of
thought and care that escape the hasty critic, and many similar
incidents might be cited. For instance, the remarkably flexible voice
of which De Wolf Hopper makes such effective use has received
almost as careful training as a prima donna’s.
MADAME HELENA MODJESKA.
It would hardly be fair to the theatrical situation of the day to

picture it only as a regime of farce comedy. The burlesque is indeed
the most characteristic phase of the fin de siècle dramatic
development, but it is not by any means sole monarch of the stage.
The avenue that leads to the applause of the world of culture is still
open to interpreters of the art that can call forth tears as well as
laughter.
MODJESKA AS JULIE DE MORTIMER.
No better proof of this can be given than the marked favor with
which Madame Modjeska has been everywhere received during her
comparatively brief career upon the American stage. It is true that
she had already gained a wide reputation in Europe when she
abandoned her profession and came to the New World with her
husband, Count Bozenta. They had in view the establishment of a
colony of their Polish fellow countrymen in Southern California. The
scheme was probably somewhat Utopian. At any rate it was
abandoned, and the countess, under her earlier name of Modjeska,
fitted herself for the English speaking stage.
San Francisco was the scene of her debut, and “Adrienne
Lecouvreur” the play. She has since acted in all the leading cities of
America, besides making two visits to London. Her repertory
includes a wide range of pieces of the highest intellectual order. As a
delineator of Shaksperian heroines she is unsurpassed, and her
appearances with Edwin Booth in the great dramatic classics have
been among the most notable events of recent seasons. The
intensity of her Juliet, the grace and dignity of her Portia, the pathos
of her Ophelia, and the Arcadian naïveté of her Rosalind have borne
witness to her rare endowment of histrionic talent. Among other
plays in which she has taken the leading part are “Camille,” “Mary
Stuart,” “Juanna,” “Frou-Frou,” “Odette,” and “Richelieu.” In the last
named, which she played in conjunction with Booth, she scored one
of her most notable successes as Julie de Mortimer.
Long as she has been upon the stage of two continents, Madame
Modjeska’s impersonations of Juliet or Beatrice have all the fresh
charm of youth. With exceptional skill in the portrayal of strong
emotion she combines a lightness of touch and a graceful refinement
that are peculiarly characteristic. The fact that she has never
succeeded in removing from her English speech the last faint trace
of a foreign accent, is to many of her parts rather an added interest
than a blemish.
MODJESKA AS OPHELIA.
A DAUGHTER OF THE DESERT.
By Thomas Winthrop Hall.
A tired horse ambled slowly up to the solitary adobe house, or rather
hut, that meets the sight of the dusty traveler who journeys between
a certain station on the Southern Pacific railroad and the famous
Indian station at San Carlos. One hundred miles of dusty road that
wound over a naked, sandy plain sparsely dotted with hideous
cactus, a stretch of the desert on either side, and on the horizon
walls of gray mountains treeless as the desert itself—these were the
uncheerful surroundings of McCoy’s ranch. Worse than a prison,
more remote than a Siberian mine, lonelier than the grave, here two
human souls, father and daughter, had lived for more than twelve
years, and during that twelve years they had been away from that
adobe oasis, the girl at least, not one single day, and the father
never longer than it would take him to ride over to the mountains for
a short hunt. It was a watering station on the stage road. An artesian
well had been sunk there in the early days. Like every other work of
man it had to have its human slaves, and from the day the last
adobe had been laid these slaves had been McCoy and his daughter
Sis. The latter was a child of six when she was lifted out of the ox
wagon at the door of the house. She was now a girl of eighteen.
What a life hers had been! One unvarying monotony of cooking
and of washing, of chopping wood and feeding the horses and of
looking anxiously one day up the road for the stage to come down
and the next day down the road for the stage to come up so that she
might have dinner (a pretentious name for a meal that consisted
always of bacon, eggs, coffee and hot bread) prepared for the stage
driver and what unfortunate companions in misery he might be
transporting to or from the agency. These, alas, gulped down their
food as hastily as possible and hastened away at once, only too
anxious to get the thing over with. That was all she saw of them.
Once in a while she caught sight of a muffled figure in an ambulance
that stopped for water for its thirsty mules and knew that it was a
woman because it did not get out and swear at the heat and dust, an
officer’s wife probably—ah! how she longed to speak to her. The
rough freighters often camped there. This was the sum total of the
girl’s experience with beings of her kind save one.
That was the man who sat carelessly erect on the tired horse that
ambled up to the adobe house. Lieutenant Jack Harding was he, of
Uncle Sam’s —th regiment of cavalry. And what a man he was, to be
sure! Handsome as a Greek god, stalwart as a Norse warrior,
reckless, brave, accomplished, as gentle as a girl until aroused, then
as wild and defiant as an Apache, he was a Bayard in the eyes of
most women and a demi-god in the estimation of poor Sis. He had
stopped over night at the watering station six times in four years. Sis
dreamed of his coming months before he appeared, and dreamed,
too, of his going months after he went. She worshiped him from the
moment she first saw him. That was all. She had read many books,
for her father had taught her to read, and Jack Harding served in turn
as the hero of each novel she became possessed of, and, of course,
(O dear little trait of woman’s nature) she as the heroine.
Lieutenant Jack jumped from his horse as lightly as though a ride
of fifty miles were a mere bagatelle, and walked smilingly up to the
door. Just as he reached it Sis came bashfully to the doorway.
“Hello, Sis,” said the lieutenant cheerfully.
“O——,” replied Sis. She never could talk to him.
“Dad home?”
“Nope.”
“Hunting?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’ve come to make my party call for the last time I was here.
Got anything to eat?”
“Only bacon and eggs.”
“Good enough for a prince—if the prince is as hungry as I am. All
right, get them ready. I’ll go and take care of Noche. Come, Noche—
want some water, old girl?” He led off the horse, and Sis turned from
the doorway to the kitchen. As she did so she stepped just for one
moment into a little room that, were she a lady, she would call her
boudoir, though it was but little larger than a good sized piano box,
and looked searchingly at her own face in a bit of broken looking
glass. What did she see? No thing of beauty, I assure you. This girl
had not been dowered by God with that divine gift that makes every
woman who possesses it a queen. Far from it. But so ignorant of the
world was she, so much an utter stranger to the appearance of
others of her sex, that she did not know that she was remarkably
homely. Freckle faced, pug nosed, red haired, rough and worn with
work, she was in appearance positively ugly. She had often asked
her father whether or not she was good looking, and he had
invariably replied “Yes.” But he always said it in such a way that poor
Sis began at last to suspect that she was not really as beautiful as
the heroines of Scott’s novels (she knew the descriptions of them by
heart.) Still it might be, and she hoped—a thing that a woman does
almost as easily as she forgives.
The supper was eaten in the usual wondering silence on her part
and the running fire of nonsense on the part of the lieutenant. He
accused her of being in love with “Peg-leg,” the mule driver, and was
cheerfully unconscious of the fact that his words tortured her heart
until she almost broke down and cried before him. He told her all the
news of the post and the latest jokes on the officers in an endeavor
—a vain one—to make her laugh. People who have lived ten years
in a desert do not laugh. At last it was over, and she cleared away
and washed the dishes. He smoked his pipe the while, wondering
how in the world she came to be so homely, wondering how she
managed to exist in such a place, and coming to a mental conclusion
as to how long he himself could stand such a life before committing
suicide. Then he went out and took a stroll on the sandy desert. Old
McCoy was not in sight, and though it was moonlight it was hardly
probable that he would return that night. He congratulated himself,
too, that Sis had not been brought up to the ideas of good society,
else he would have to make his bed in the hay that night and leave
the house, double barred and locked, to Sis. He even thoughtlessly
muttered to himself, “What a wonderful protection a homely face is!”
Then he went back to the kitchen to talk to Sis a while before going
to bed. As he entered a sight met his astonished eyes that almost
made him burst with laughter. It was nothing more nor less than Sis
arrayed in a gown that would have been an absurdity in caricature.
Green satin trimmed with red ribbons and a red sash, formless,
shapeless, it was her pitiful attempt to appear beautiful. Her great
hands hung from the sleeves like baskets from the branches of an
apple tree. Her red face and hair looked redder still by the contrast
with the gaudy colors of the dress, and she stood in the habitual
slouching attitude so characteristic of her. Yet there was something
in her gray eyes that told him it was a supreme moment in her life—
the wearing of this dress—and he did not laugh. Indeed, for a
moment he almost felt sad. He tried to sit down as unconcernedly as
possible, and busied himself filling his pipe. He did not dare to look
at her. He hoped she would do something or say something, but she
did not. She stood there silent, intense, looking at him so earnestly
that it was but too manifest that she was trying to read his thoughts.
He must do something.
“Where did you get that dress, Sis?” he said as quietly as he
could.
“Dad gave it to me,” she answered. “He always promised me a
satin dress, and so last Christmas he sent and got the satin. I made
it. This is the first time I have worn it before any one.”
She spoke as though the words were choking her. She seemed to
be nerving herself for something unusual. She was.
“Tell me,” she cried, almost fiercely, “tell me honestly, am I
beautiful?”
He tried not to do it. He felt like a cur, a second afterwards, for
having done it. But he could not help it, do what he could to control
himself. He laughed aloud.
“O don’t—don’t—don’t——” she almost screamed. Then she fell
on the floor in a green and red heap and wept. Jack had seen
women weep before (a number of them had wept at different times
when he had come to say “good by”), but never before had he seen
such a torrent of tears as this. There was no stemming it, though he
tried very hard. It seemed an age before it ceased, and then it
seemed another age that she sat there motionless with her face in
her hands as though she was trying to hide it. He felt horribly
nervous. It took him sixteen matches, as he afterwards said, to
smoke one pipe. Finally she broke the silence. Her voice was calm
enough as she asked:
“What is a beautiful woman like?”
He did not answer in words. It was just a little hard to speak at all.
He unbuttoned his blouse and took from the inside pocket a
photograph and handed it to her. She held it fiercely in her two great
rough hands and gazed at it steadily for a long time. Poor woman,
she learned what beauty was, and she learned of the love of this
man whom she worshiped. Then she got up, handed back the
photograph to its owner and walked silently and slowly from the
room.
It was hard for Jack Harding to sleep that night. He got into a fitful
slumber along towards morning, and he had not been sleeping for an
hour when he found himself standing awake in the middle of the
room feeling for his revolver in the gray light of the early dawn.
“Nothing but a shot could wake me like that,” he said to himself,
and hastily pulling on his clothes and taking his revolver in his hand
he went through the house. The fire had been built and breakfast,
already cooked, was waiting for him. “I guess Sis didn’t sleep much
either,” he thought. He knocked at her door but received no answer.
“Milking the cow, I guess,” he thought, but there was beginning to be
a horrible dread in his heart. He ran hastily out of the house, and
there—there under his own window lay Sis, again a green and red
heap, but there was red on the dress now that was not ribbon. She
had shot herself in the breast. He ran to her and picked her up. He
carried her into the house and swore at himself for never having had
the energy to study a little surgery in all the long years of his army
idleness. Presently she revived a little and he heard her murmur
faintly: “Tell dad good by—tell him I can’t help him any longer.”
“Oh, Sis!” he pleaded, “why did you do this?”
“Because you laughed at me,” she answered.
“But I did not mean it. You are beautiful, Sis, indeed you are very
beautiful.”
“Oh no, I’m not,” she said. “I know what beauty is now.”
He could say nothing for a time. He hardly knew why he said what
he did when he spoke.
“Sis,” he asked her gently, “tell me, why did you want to be
beautiful?”
“Because—because I loved you,” she answered slowly and with a
sob.
And when her father got home that afternoon and walked gayly
into the little adobe house, he found them still together, one dead—
one weeping.
A BRIEF BURLESQUE.
As Performed Upon the Modern Stage.
She—You love me?
He— Aye, I do indeed,

How can I prove it?
She— Is there need?
He—Nay, not for some, but you are cold—

Ah, would our life were that of old
That I might prove by feat of arms
My wish to shield you from all harms—
As knight of thine I could not fail!
She—There’s safety in a coat of mail.
He—True, so there is; but take the case

Of Orpheus—give to me his place.
For Orpheus left this world above,
At Pluto’s throne he showed his love—
She—But that’s mythology, you know—
He—To Pluto I would go to show—
She—Ah, thanks; but is it just to trace

Comparisons between his Grace
Of the Inferno and mon père?
You’d hardly find the latter there,
But in that room with door ajar
You’ll see him deep in his cigar;
Which after dinner smoke, I find,

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Of the two great divisions of the drama, tragedy is today surprisingly

MADAME HELENA MODJESKA.

It would hardly be fair to the theatrical situation of the day to

She—You love me?

He— Aye, I do indeed,

She— Is there need?

He—Nay, not for some, but you are cold—

She—There’s safety in a coat of mail.

He—True, so there is; but take the case

She—But that’s mythology, you know—

He—To Pluto I would go to show—

She—Ah, thanks; but is it just to trace

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