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

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

- LIFE: T was at the Hoffman House in the mellow hours of yesterday afternoon, ‘They were very silent, as they pursued their hopeful, Jap- anese meditations. But it was a silence far more impressive than any rude verbosity. James C. Duff cast his lightning glances over a dramatic sheet which rudely criticised the efforts he had made with such Carlylean earnestness. John Stetson pierced with his eagle eye the funereal humor of one of New York’s most sportive dailies, which toyed with the Fifth Avenue “ Mi- kado” in a spirit of provoking frivolity. “Ahha! Isee you love a good sound criticism.” The managers looked up with a big start, of which James C. Duff had the largest share. They beheld a tall, lank and much tanned being, who smiled upon them from the lofty pinnacle of his nether limbs. “In that most Japanese retreat have I spent my life. “T came from Yokohama,” he said. I am no rude critic, bound to review the works of men for bread and butter. But I have visited both your theatres and would say in all good fellowship what I think of your efforts to be C. Duff turned distinctly pale. John Stetson trem- defy you,” said the latter manager bravely, after a “My ‘Mikado is imbued with the perfume of the | represent an erring wife. ‘The scenery in“ Paquita”” is age at Knightsbridge, London. I have the Jap- anese wriggle and the Japanese giggle. D'Oyly Carte says so, and he ought to know. He's not a bit prejudiced.” “ Hear what I have to say,”said the Yokohama gentleman | solemnly. ‘Your ‘ Mikado’ is the best we have, but it is not Japanese. Who in Japan ever carried a sword like your English Ko-Ko? Who in Japan ever saw such scenery as you portray? Stetson, it is Chinese, pure and simple. Oh, my chubby manager, you ldst your time when you visited Knightsbridge, for you could have found all you evidently want in the savory regions of—Mott street.” John Stetson closed his eagle eye. James C. Duff sat bolt upright and waited his turn. “You,” said Yokohama, to the Standard potentate, “ have blown about your doings until we weary of you. You were to be the crystallized quintessence of Japan. Europe and America were to be forgotten in your theatre. Ha! Ha! most vain-glorious manager.” “Thad a Japanese dancing master,” murmured Mr. Duff, feebly. The fiendish laughter of the Yokohama gentleman dis- turbed him. “Did he teach Jarbeau?” was the stern query. “Ah! you tremble at the question, Jarbeau, as you well know, is Parisian to the last kick. She reminds me of the days when, as a boy, | visited Paris and danced at Buillier and the Elysée. She is Théo; she is Aimée; but Yum-Yum, never ! Your chorus girls are pretty,” he continued, “ but as for their feet, they are no more Japanese than your own. They speak unmistakably of —" “No, no; don’t say it. I can’t hear it,” said the miser- able manager. “I know you mean China.” “ Ah, but I don’t,” was the exultant rejoinder. Chicago.” And, as he silently took his departure, James C. Duff grasped John Stetson’s hand, and the managers walked sorrowfully up Broadway in sympathetic communion, swear- ing a friendship which managerial competition should be powerless to rupture. . . . ARTLEY CAMPBELL, the ubiquitous, produced his much advertised “ Paquita” at the Fourteenth Street Theatre, Monday night,-with all due solemnity. The play seems to suggest that Mr. Campbell started with the inten- tion of writing something naughty, and then, scared by his own temerity, rushed suddenly back into morality. The plot and dialogue of “Paquita” are painfully tedious, and their wearisome effect is only partly dispelled by the various dramatic climaxes which are distributed at regular intervals to the audience, as bon-bons are given to children to take away the taste of their medicine. Mr. C. P. Flockton, as an aged doctor, is too good for his surroundings. His perform- ance is artistic and well worth seeing. Frederick de Belle- ville and H. M. Pitt are conventional enough to satisfy even “T mean | Mr. Bartley Campbell, while Miss Kate Forsythe looks too serenely satisfied with the world in general to adequately elaborate, and that, of course, means a great deal nowadays. . * . “cc MORAL CRIME,” at the Union Square Theatre this week, has been produced in Chicago, and was apparently well received in the Garden City. It is extremely emotional, and a nice, good, comfortable death scene, which is one of the features in the play, will doubtless appeal to the average theatre-goer. Mr. J. M. Hill has spared no expense in the production of “A Moral Crime,” and with a cast which includes Joseph Haworth, Edwin Cleary and Miss Marie Prescott, it ought to do well. . . * “ DONIS” celebrated its 365th performance the other night, and the indefatigable Dixey appeared in a brand new suit, which would have caused Solomon, with twice as much glory as that usually assigned to him, to hide his diminished head. Alan Dale, HE shorter a man is the longer he is in paying his debts. comicbooks.com