Life — November 8, 1883 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

238 Very. They are trying very hard not to listen. Yes, sweet. But I thought people went to the opera to hear the music? That was in the dark ages, love. What is music? Music is a harmonious combination or succession of certain sharps, flats and naturals. What is a sharp? A sharp, my dear, is a—well, do you remember that gentleman we passed in the lobby, with the buttery smile and corpulent pocket-book ? Why, that was the manager ! Yes, my sweet. Well? He is a sharp. And whatare flats? Look in the bagniores, and see the stock-holders. And a natural? The young man you spoke of who spent his little all for a seat. He ts a natural what? Idiot. PLUMBING 2 CAS-FITTIR — SURVIVAL OF THE ‘“ FITTEST.” 1st Plumber: Wet, I s'pos— you ’VE BEEN OFF TO NEWPORT THIS SUMMER ? 2nd Plumber: Naw. SASSiETY GETTIN SO FEAR- FUL MIXED THERE THAT I TOOK A COTTAGE AT LonG BRANCH THIS YEAR. Henry Irving. LAST week I struggled for five hours with Mr. Henry Irving. I received a different impression every five minutes. When he dashed on the stage as Mathias, his verve and presence pleased me, When he broke the silence which succeeded the wild wel- coming applause, my enthusiasm sank to zero. His first sentence was pitched in a hark-from-the-tombs key, and cadenced like the earliest effort of piety at high church intoning. Then he crossed the stage, and I disliked him. An esthetic maiden once said that’ Mr. Irving’s legs were limpid and utter. That is not true. Anatomically, his legs are genial and satisfy- ing entities. But their sometime scherzo movement I object to. One need not break into a violent schottische in order to cross a stage, and when a pair of legs indulges in that obsolete and ex- travagant pastime, while seriously conveying the body they belong to from place to place, I am inclined to quarrel with them. I might further say that when the legs compel the feet which bear them to scrape a sonorous response to their movement from the suffering boards, they are guilty of most wanton barbarity to cul- tivated ears. These are the most salient of the famous ‘* mannerisms " of Eng- land’s most famous actor. For the sepulchral timbre of his voice, na- ture is no doubt to blame. A crow with a bad cold cannot throw himself into the phonetic guise of a canary, be he ever so clever a crow. Iam inclined to believe that Mr. Irving is equally hopeless of matching the clear enunciation of Booth, or running the gamut so facile to Salvini. Still his voice, as a voice, is far from dis- pleasing. It has not a wide range, but it is neither harsh nor strident, nor is it guttural, It is individual at its worst, and the individuality, to my taste, is agreeable. It possesses more than one heart-tone in its brief compass ; it can command or plead ; it has tenderness to fy the most captious, and its pathos is deep and true. But the method of its use I am strenuously at war. No school of oratory can endorse a sing-song delivery. ‘The inhabitants of the airless moon may applaud it, but earth cannot, When Mr, Irving intones his lines ; when, going to perform the simple act of shutting a distant door, he elaborates the one—two —three, halt ! one—two—three, halt ! of the dancing master, and when he slurs his eonsonants and swallows his vowels, he incurs my strongest displeasure, and I wish, for his own sake, not less than for that of his friends and admirers, that he would pluck out these rooted sorrows, and thus raze much written trouble. But Irving is delightful withal. I like his face. It is patri- cian, virile, intelligent and mobile. He has a smile as sweet as a girl's, His eye is quick, bold and flashing, yet capable of ex- pressing the tenderest love and most plaintive sadness. His ands are large and sinewy, but more full of grace than any hands Ihave ever seen. He can shade an emotion with a which but few of his brother artists can equal. I use the word “artist” deliberately. Several hectic little gentlemen whose canons of art are self-formulated, are blown with importance over the discovery that Mr. Irving is not an ar- tist. It is great to be a discoverer. It is a proud moment when one can tiptoe softly to the pinnacle of his conceit, and say, to himself, or eoue, “*Lo, I will now teach somebody something.” Unfortunately for these, the judgment of this world is gregarian. That of the next, we believe, is autocratic, What goes straight- est and truest to the general heart of man—that in art is pronounced great. An opinion must be contagious to survive the wrack in which the individual disappears, A creed may be formulated by one, but must be approved by a multitude. I once knew a man who preferred quinine to sugar, and castor oil to honey. He was honest no doubt, but I fear somewhat bilious and malarial, He made very few converts to his gastronomy. lelicacy comicbooks.com