Life — February 7, 1901 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

114 -LIFE- Dramatic Criticism as She Is Writ. Extracts figm Any New York Paperson Any Production. VHE Jair-Oiled.—A fashionable audience of clegantly-gowned women and distinguished- looking men attended the opening at the Lycebocker last evening. The //uir-Oiled, as is well known, has no dra- matic critic, cheerfally relinquishing the employment of such antiquated in- stitutions to its archaic followers in the newspaper race. Other journals may con- tinue to tell what happened on the stage—the //air- Oiled tells who were there, Mrs. Stuyvesant Shad, looking especially lovely in the most becoming of saffron lace gowns, appeared much entertained by t fforts of the stage folk. On the other hand, Mrs. William Slow-Un was observed to stifle several ladylike yawns behind her exquisite sandal-wood fan. So the /air-Oiled is at a loss as to the measure of success or failure of the play. Among those present I noticed : (Note to Compositor ; Take tn first four pages names tn Elite Directory. Use following four pages for opening at the Dalyterion. James Gordon: Bennet) Aaron StaLe.—I went down to see the “ne play at the Lycebocker last night. “*New!"" Ha! Itiscalled—but no matter what it is called, it might as ap- \_ propriately be termed “ The Bachelor Hen,” or **The Non- Union Cucumber,” or ‘* The Excruci- ating Adventures of aStopped Clock,” or anything else you please. To my mind, it was a cross between a chenille portiére and a scrambled egg. Ha! ‘That's clover, isn’t it? I had a young woman say to me the other day: “Oh, Mr. Stale, how do you manage to get off so many delightfully droll things? I should think it would keep your hands full.” And then I told her: “ My dear find it necessary to wear a face which looks like a com- bination of Welsh rabbit and ice-cream soda tastes? That's what I want to know, and I warn him I shall find out. Ha! Jeems L. Borep.—Another of those B’Gosh plays. How long, oh Lord, how long ere the deliverance from this class of “entertainment”? When I go to the theatre, I want meat, strong meat ; not sweet cider, plus doughuts. You know, I am very literary, and the B’Gosh play just gets on my nerves. Ibsen never wrote a B’Gosh play. Tolstoi never wrote a B’Gosh play. Maeterlinck never wrote a 3'Gosh play. I never wrote a B'Gosh play. New-mown hay ! Ducks’ egg: the barn loft! Alderney cows looking out through the parlor windows! Bah! Bah! Bah! And this isn’t intended for sheep talk, either. Let us make an end of the B’Gosh. If we cannot have meat, let us not content ourselves with fodder. That’s the way last night’s play at the Lycebocker affected me. FRANKLIN ViLE.—It is such a pleasure to be able to praise the work of a brother author. The current Lycebocker attraction is a credit to the intelli- gence of its parent. Not to be mentioned in the same column with my “Girl That Crept Behind Me,” of course. That was not to be ex- pected, for we are all agreed that ‘‘The Girl” was the most sympathetically American play ever written, Nor may we give last night’s production a dot on the same map which holds another of my masterpieces, namely, A Wart of France,"’ because the fact is that * The Wart” was, by all odds, the most thrillingly vivid blend of the historically romantic ever presented to a Broadway audience. Still, the Lycebocker play must not be denied its meed of praise from my pen, and herewith it is cheerfully commended. Witte Autumy.—As I looked, last evening, over the stage and the audience at the Lycebocker, I was minded force- fully of another stage and another audience—a stage whereon the fairest flowers of young lady, I can do 'em Shakespeare's garden blos- with my fect.” Ha! Wasn't that cute of me? But to the play. If the leading woman would have her voice hazed and give her face a post-gradu- ate courseat some swell der- matologistic abattoir, the tender expressions of the leading man might bemore understandable. And, by the way, speaking of the THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLO somed and grew in beauty under the tender handling of the adorable Ada, where Portia lived and Rosamond loved, and where capri- cious Cordelia moved us to blissful moments; and I trust I am not judging with ultra harshness when, speaking empirically, I de- clare there can be no com- parison between the stages, leading man, why does he ‘THE COLOSSUS OF NICARAGUA. that is, no comparison comicbooks.com