Puck — June 27, 1877 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

10 PUCK. HOW MRS. MULLANY DROVE THE HEN INTO THE COOP. “CoM BACK HERE, YE BLACKGYAIRD!’ Al | <r" uy Vf LY } \l “OCH, MURTHER!” HEATED FANCIES. Dear Puck: fi SHAN'T begin by informing you that | Bi June is here, for, even to a young man of your decolletée toilette, the fact must be too evident to need comment. But June be- ing ‘here, there is borne on the Summer air, besides a fragrance ot June roses and the smeli of the Petroleum Works of Hunter's Point, a laziness and mild apathy that enter Said into the soul of man, and make him sink thought of daily occupation into deep oblivion. ich is why I shut my eyes and ears to the theatrical performances that are now vainly en- deavoring to entice-with their summer attrac- tions, and lolling back in my rocking-chair, with © Araminta sitting at my feet, listlessly reading | the last story by the author of ‘‘ Helen’s Babies,” give myself over to fleeting fancies, and dream of a golden future. And as ‘‘ Waves” is withdrawn from Wal- | lack’s, the .Great~American Drama vanishes from the vista’ of my imagination, and in its | stead rises a monstrous family tree with untold branches, teeming with French fruit, more or less forbidden, but offering boundless possibili- ties to the adapting mind. For Boucicault doesn’t dream in summer; and while other and unwary mortals are revel- ing in heated inactivity, the great adapter is at work spreading his tendrils and entwining him- self about managerial affections. And I see the French drama, in Boucicaulted form, taking its firm hold at Wallack’s in the Fall, as the ul- | timate returning-point of the management— notwithstanding the pleasant festivities that shall intervene when the Lydia Thompson troupe of sportive and burlesquing blondes take possession of the theatre. Isee a kindred programme ahead for the Union Square management, after the Soldene ‘Troupe have held their rapturous sway, and the Wilkinsons have got through the preliminary season with their Western drama, “‘ Struck Oil,” which returns to America with the’ stamp of, English approval.upon it. At Daly’s, ‘Rip Van Winkle” will take his | long sleep in Fall, when the season may awaken from its Summer slumber. .And so on into the records of all our theatres.I take a peep ahead, forgetful of the present programmes. = a wonder who our next season's, loves will e I wonder whether our hearts will stillworship at the shrine of last year’s beauties? love we feel for the idol beyond the footlights For the | | isa feeble one, and I have known the young man who poured out his youthful ardor in verse dedicated to Rose Eytinge in Spring, to recon- struct his poetry of the future for the benefit of Sydney Cowell in Fall. I dream of new faces beaming upon us when Winter comes, and newly-wounded hearts bow- ing down to the lustre of these faces. But clearer, brighter and dearer than any new face that dawns, lingers the one face of last season; and I pat myself on the back in figurative approval for my constancy, and renew my last year’s devotion to my platonic ideal. I won't mention her name. Araminta is stealing furtive glances at me every few. minutes, and I am almost afraid even to think of her too long, for the flush that mantles the little bald spot at the back of my head has betrayed me often before. But I am not writing a play for her. She has escaped that act of selfishness which too often destroys the harmony of kindred souls— before and behind the footlights. And yet I should like to. I could throw so much honest affection into the love-speeches, and cast such a halo of purity over the entire fabric. But I shall leave the task to some other, and content myself with abusing the work after it is finished, and showing how it fails to offer scope for one tithe of her graceful art. I see in the golden future a\score of new, dramatic productions that are now but in.em- comicbooks.com