The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1890-08-24


reused such an impatient wrath in him
that he went through the whole sollo-
guy himself, and in way that thrilled
the listeners.
The words poured passionately from
his lips, his face grew pale from actual
feeling, sometimes he clasped his hands,
sometimes his head. and when at last,
after he had barred his heart in the vary
ing shades Of grief and rage, he reached
the limit of despair in the hushed, halt
ing line, But break my heart-for
must hold my tongue" he was on his
knees sobOing. The effect was electrical
When he rose, winhng back the tears,
his Impotence was entirely gone. He
laid his hand on the youths shoulder.
My boy, Hamlet never gave voice to
such agony with his hand thrust into his
breast. All, no. You can't play Ham
let now. You can't even approach it in
the smallest degree. Years hence, when
you have suffered bit yourself, you'll
see what is needed. and you'll realize
how far below that inimitable creation
the best of us must fall. But" he added
gayly, don't be discouraged bit,
not bit-oh, dear me. no! If thought
youTever make a tragedian I'd let you
practice on Hamlet but you won't,
simply because it's not your line. Stick
to comedy, my boy, stick to comedy"
And SO on through the afternoon pro
gramme he corrected and nodded with
master hand.
Watch that girl" he said to me
little later; ''see how she wriggles from
one foot to the other as she walks. l
call her Wires See here" he called to
her, "that Will never do. Can't you
keep those legs Of yours still?''
II try to, Mr.. Boucicault," she said,
with sigh ike mother speaking Of a
refractory child: "but it's no use-they
won't"
''You talk as if they didn't belong to
you, and went capering off by them
selves" he exclaimed. and amid gust
of laughter from the pupils "Wires"
wriggled off.
"By the way, its astonishing how few
women nowadays carry themselves
we'll" he said thoughtfully. ''It almost
seems as if a graceful walk is lost art.
Everything in nature has such perfect
flow and swing you'd think clever,
adaptive creature like a woman would
learn by observation. The velvety move
ments of a cat, for example, ought to
come natural to your SEX"
"And why, pray
He lay back in the chair, the extreme
tips of the fingers Of both hands just
meeting.
During my long life I haven't gone
about with my eyes shut, he said with
a touch of humorous cynicism. Ode
pend upon it, my child, cat and wo-
man have many traits in common. They
are both soft and cruel. A woman's love
for perfumes and laces is identical with
q cats for sunshine and downy rug. A
cat wheedles its prey; so does woman.
A cat tortures it in the most delicate
fashion, what could be more womanlike?
You know with what feline softness
you'll level home thrust at rival and
smile sweetly on her discontinue? Well,
there you are. But in the matter of
grace-Oh, no. just as the smooth flow
ing of a river, the bending of tree in
the wind, the flight of d swallow, are
full of rhythm, so man should be, and
was originally, but with civilization he
has lost it. Women are even more I'M
graceful than men because of the ugly
fashions they permit TO confine their bod
les and hamper their movements. Would
you have a model of grace? Go and
study the panther in his cage in Central
park"
But it is in speaking of the past that
Boucicault is at his best His reminis-
cences of Rachel, Nelson, Vestris, Kean,
Kemble, Macready. SQthcrn and many
others make those dead and gone favor
ties live again for the moment-au fire,
pathos or humOr.
OF his many plays London Assur-
ance" is the one nearest his heart. Even
its faults, which later experience has
shown him, only make it more dear. It
was his first born. The day before its
presentation in London in 1841 he was
an obscure, desolate, penniless Irish boy;
the day after ne was parsonage.
How he, an unknown scribbler,
brought the play to Charles Mathews,
not daring to hope for its acceptance;
how it pleased the great actor beyond
his widest dreams, how during its first
presentation before a critical audience
Ire sat shivering in the rain on Waterloo
bridge, fearing to return to the theatre
and learn the worst or best; and how at
length venturiug back he found the au-
dience calling for the author, the pit
boiling over with enthusiasm and the
actors searching for him everywhere, is
an old, fascinating story that loses moth
ing by repetition.
And this was forty-eight years ago.
said Boucicault, IN far away voice.
"Ah. me! But the heart and brain do
not grow old, and when l recall those
events, those faces, feel their hands in
mine, l see their smiles, hear their
voices, l am Is again"
EvELYN MALCOLM