Life — May 7, 1885 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

“c ONA,” now running at the Star Theatre, is an ex- traordinary production—to call it good would be grossly deceiving our readers. It has a certain character, so has the desert of Sahara, and a very little of either goes a long way. To put it briefly, it lacks all those qualities which are essential to success. Miss Dauvray has ability, but is terribly handicapped by her surroundings. Of the other actors, perhaps, it is only fair to say they do their best. No human being could hold his own insuch a piece. . . . E are surprised at the candid confession of the Union Square management, that Minnie Palmer's “My Sweetheart" is turning money away. We are not surprised, however, that such should be thé case, as the average play of the Minnie Palmer type has very “turning” qualities. * . * ISS LILIAN RUSSELL-SOLOMON-BRAHAM, fat, fair and fortissimo, is once more delighting Dudedom at the Casino. . “ Polly,” the comic opera in which this lady appears, is the latest effort of that arch discomposer, Solo- mon, collaborating with a librettist by the name of Mortimer. As a comic opera, “ Polly” isa conspicuous failure, redeemed solely by the elaborate and tasteful setting it has received at the hands of Messrs. Rice and ‘Aronson, The libretto is simply rubbish, and if it ever had any savor at all, lost it when it left its London haunts, But to the Anglo-maniac dude it is great. There is enough of the old English left in it to keep it alive while the fluttering hearts of the chappies continue to flutter in the precincts of the Casino. T the Mount Morris Theatre, Mr. George Fawcett Rowe, supported by Messrs. John Sutherland, W. J. Shea and W. O. Partridge, is filling an engagement as Mr. Micawber, in his celebrated drama, “ Little Emily.” . . * HE only real success to be seen at present is “ Sealed Instructions,” at the Madison Square Theatre. It is well mounted, and, in point of acting, up to the usual stand- ard of this charming little theatre. . . . 4 Claes gratifying announcement comes that “ Twins” is a thing of the past. It never deserved to succeed, and Manager Duff is to be congratulated upon at last knowing a bad thing when he sees it. TEMPORA MUTANTUR. N olden Tyme wh™* valiaunt Knyghtes Disputed f{* each otheres Ryghtes, + Wh" Maydes w'* foughte ff —Th** I wot F' Monie, Love was nevere boughte. Alack ! Those goode old Daies have passed, Y¢ Foppe succeedes y* Knyghte at laste. Love breedes contentiones as of Olde, But Steele has given waie to Golde! WS. Case, THE RISE OF SILAS SLAP 'EM. BY W. D, HOWLS. CHAPTER I. HEN Silas Slap 'Em opened his eyes it was exactly seven o'clock on the authority of the time-piece in the _ steeple of Park Street Church. The opinion of the Park Street Church clock did not have the same weight with Mr. Slap ‘Em that a clock striking from Trinity would have had, but it was at least not a South End clock, and so Silas was satisfied that it was really seven. He was not particularly surprised, however, as it usually was seven at about that time every morning. Silas Slap Em was born in Boston, and thereby earned the right to exist. He was unfortunately born at the South End, however, which degraded him far beyond the appreciation of any non-resident. A South Ender sometimes has brains, and may avoid criminal , prosecution, but he never can have correct tastes, manners or knowledge of social forms and ob- servances. This is an fhvariable rule, Consequently, Silas breathed with difficulty the rarefied air of Beacon street, into which blooded thoroughfare he had been kindly permitted to move when he got to be rich enough. Silas did not make his money in Atchison, like most Bos- tonians, but by advertising an unspecified brand of Mineral Paint, just as, some years before, Barthy Hubbub had adver- tised Tivoli Beer. Seven o'clock meant business to him, therefore, and he at once prepared to rise. . Placing his large, hairy hands upon the floor, he dragged himself head-first over the foot-board. He did not know how to get out of bed properly. This was because he came from the South End. Some years before Silas had earned the undying gratitude of a certain young Bostonian by mistaking him for an English- man. In some slight recognition of this great service, the young man had given Silas a few “ pointers.” It is to this that we owe the astounding circumstance of a South Ender's taking a morning bath. Slap 'Em bathed awkwardly, as a matter of course, but he nevertheless bathed, and then dressed himself. It was a good deal for him to have done this, in- stead of dressing himself first and bathing afterwards, as he might once have done. In only one thing did his plebeian origin principally betray itself. In breathing his morning prayer to Emerson, he merely knelt, instead of prostrating himself three times.