Life — September 16, 1897 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

of the life it seeks to portray. The atmos- phere is dreamy and seductive, with a haze of Bourbon whiskey hovering over it. There isa slight suggestion of the lynching fever now epidemic in the South, but this is only a background to the love affair of a French nobleman disguised as a romantic tramp, impersonated by Mr. Ditrichstein of Zou-zow fame, and a blue-grass maiden of romantic tendencies, prettily pictured and well played by Miss Katherine Grey. ‘* A Southern Ro- mance" is handsomely mounted and is in- teresting, although not sufficiently brilliant to keep a man with a good record from being present at the Day of Judgment. Metcalfe. Rich Ore, but Hard to Work. HE man who described himself as sitting down with a nut- cracker to read an article by Henry James, doubtless spoke metaphoric- ally; yet he conveyed an idea, Mr. James is curiously proficient in fast- ening his ideas to his language. It is good language, and skillfully em- ployed ; but some sort of a cyanide process ought to be devised for the benefit of lazy readers, who want to get at the sense of it without too much exertion. A Glimpse Into the Future. G2ETP NE Mayor of Boston sat in i his private office , with his feet 2 “Q perched on a ma- hogany desk, smoking a big cigar and musing over his former triumphs. He had been successively the world’s champion pugilist, a famous actor, special cor- respondent for a great newspaper, and the highest salaried baseball umpire on record, Now he was chief executive of this refined and cultured common- wealth, the Athens of America. His next step would be—well, perhaps it was too early to think of that, but in the blue wreaths of smoke which floated upward from his cigar he saw visions of the President's chair. The great man’s reverie was inter- rupted by the entrance of his private -LIFE> secretary, a strongly-built, bullet-headed young man, who secretly cherished hopes of following in the footsteps of his illustrious chief. . “Yer Honor,” began the secretary, “here's a petition from a lot o' swells, askin’ de city council to appropriate ten tousand dollars fer a public reception to Henrik Ibsen, wot's comin’ ter visit de burg next mont’. Wot will I do wit “Aw, trun it in de waste basket, responded the Mayor, with dignity. ‘I don't know no Henry Kibson. Who is he, anyway?” 233 ““W'y didn't yer tell me dat before? Dat makes all de difference in de world. I useter be an actor meself. Tell de boys to make dat appropriation twenty vousand, an’ we'll show ole Kibson de time of his life. An’ say, find out some of the plays wot he’s wrote. If dey're any good I might git him to write one fer me.” Isaac Anderson, T isa good thing that some men are not able to do what they are capable of doing. A DOG'S MISTAKE. “He's a furriner—a Nor- wegian or a Swede, I guess. Dey say he's hot stuff. “Wot's he done? Is he any good wit his dukes?” aw! He'sone o' dem littery fellers.” “Well, dey ain't so worse. I met a lot of 'em out to Carson City at de fight. Wot paper does he work fer?" “He ain't no noospaper _—-_— man. He writes books wot all de swells reads.” “‘Aw,rats! If de swells is so dead stuck on him dey kin give him deir own reception. Tell 'em dat we needs all de money in de treasury ter fit up de noo Athletic Palace, wot's goin’ ter make Boston de Mocha of all de pugs in de country.” **All right, yer Honor. If de swells wants to receive de furriner, dey pays de expense. Am I right?” “Sure. Say, what kind of stuff does dis here Kibson write ?” ‘*De guy wot handed in de petition says he's de biggest playwright in de bizness.”