Life — October 8, 1885 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

* LIFE: ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JUMBO. E E was a most enormous elephant And we will never see his like again ; He was too kind to mash an ant And he was killed in Canada by a train, He lived the greatest of all big creatures; Hear how his great and envied fame resounds ; All the little children remember his features ; His skin weighed sixteen hundred pounds. He was gentle as a domestic cat, And amiable docility he did not lack ; It was curious and interesting to see him squat And let the boys and girls climb upon his back. Sguire Rollin. [It is proper to state that the above monody was written for a New York standard magazine, but was rejected on account of its brevity.] DULY received your very kind note, in which you re- quested me to be present at Wallack’s Theatre on the oc- casion of Mme. Judic’s first appearance there, and to write you a nice, little criticism of same, in the most approved news- paper style, and with special references to the fair artist's technique, tone color and vocal flexibility. To your request, my dear sir, I was perfectly prepared to accede. Though it is always a hard task for me to discard my own “ breezy affluence of dash,” as Mr. Conkling says, and to adopt the stereotyped and non-compromising gen- eralness which you evidently crave, | was quite ready, in the interest of that bread and butter which is so dear to us both, to sink my own individuality in the typographical abyss of journalistic floweriness. Well, my dear sir, 1 went to Wallack’s Theatre Thursday night. I beheld the multitude of carriages—on the subject of which one of the daily papers speaks more enthusiastically than it does of the performance—waiting outside in an almost English suggestiveness of wealth and comfort. I had my little musical dictionary in my pocket, and a pencil in my hand, and was so equipped in order that I might copy a few of those nice little technical epithets, so necessary to the gen- eral public, because they don’t understand them, never did and never will. Let me say, dear sir—I might almost say, “my dear sir” —that I had previously seen Mme. Judic in Paris, in nearly all the rdles she is to play in New York, I had admired the illustrious comedienne—that's the regular term, I believe— and though I had never worshiped at her shrine, I had gazed reverentially at it. ‘ Ma'amzelle Nitouche” was unknown to me in its original garb, though I had seen the adaptation used in this country. And now, dear sir—for the last time I will say, my dear sir—comes the appalling portion of this letter. For heaven's sake, never reveal to man or woman the horrible confession I am about to make. My reputation as a fellow creature and aman would be irreparably lost should it ever become known that I have harbored such heretic opinions as those I am about to express in the privacy and seclusion of a sheet of note paper. (For the future I will only call you “sir,” as-I feel you would resent any qualifying term of endearment.) Mr. Editor, I writhe in an agony of blushes when I re- mark that, to me, Miss Lotta’s conception of the réle of “ Ma‘amzelle Nitouche ” is infinitely superior to that of Mme. Judic. Keep your fists to yourself, sir, and hear me out. Of course I do not attempt to compare the exquisite artistic talent of Mme. Judic with the kickitive vivacity of Miss Lotta. I merely wish to say that in the play you asked me to criticise, Miss Lotta’s performance was more enjoyable than that of her French sister, and for that reason I cannot concede with your request to write a stereotyped criticism. I could not perjure my soul by lapsing into rhapsodies on Thursday night's performance, and anything else I feel would be useless. Now, sir—it is hard to call you “sir"—there is something positively incongruous in the sight of an actress who owns to thirty-five years of age, and whose embonpoint is certainly most undesirable, appearing as an artless little girl in a con- vent. While Mme. Judic's demeanor was artistically demure, and her singing everything it ought to be—I ought rather to say her ¢echnigue was perfect, her tone color rich, and her vocal flexibility immense—still, it must be confessed that to imagine her a naive young girl required such a stretch of the imaginative faculties that it reduced the pleasure of the per- formance to toil, pure and simple. “Ma'amzelle Nitouche” is a stupid opera-bouffe-vau- deville. It is awkwardly strung together; the songs are few and far between, and the farcical element anything but pleasing. It suited Miss Lotta admirably. It afforded ample scope for her energetic talent. But for Mme. Judic’s fine art and finished skill, “ Ma’amzelle Nitouche” in the opinion of your humble servant is histrionic suicide and that is all. The delightful manner in which she sang those Frenchy little ditties called “Cric-Crac” and “ Badet et Cadet,” en- thused the indulgent audience very vigorously. But I have no hesitation in stating that the performance, as a whole, seemed to bore them. A more utterly tedious and non- effervescent production than “ Ma’amzelle Nitouche” I have never seen, Take Judic in some of her other plays and an idea of the greatness of the artist can be much more readily gained. In “La Femme a Papa” Judic is simply incomparable.