The age-herald., 1900-03-04
THE PASSING OF
 A PLAYHOUSE
BYL LUoIEN .ruIIEN wALKER.

l faded into black darkness. The soft radi- ance of unforgotten things alone softly H.
 lumined the dance-worn stage. The boxes I deepened into caverns of the dead years.
 Row on row, tier on tier. the empty seats
 receded in the gloom. phe music died away in a sob on memory's ghostly shore. Laugh 1 ter had rippled, tears fallen, hearts throbbed, love beat high, hope had pointed the way to heaven in the old playhouse | for the last time forever Time had dropped the callIbell, filled with tinsel and ashes, that 1t might not ring again. The 1 green room was a draped chamber or
 mourning The little mirrors in the little places of the rouge and white powder and l silver gay costume and sombre, were bro- | ken, and all was as burnt cork there, where deep lay the rayless shadows. The great place of the merry makers was tenantless at last. The echoes of footballs that passed
 with the lights had died in the dome and rolled from the floor, and no whisper rest ed upon the waves of the viewless air that stirred ever so gently in the dead-house Of | the dead play!
 | Yet 1t may not be spoken with knowledge l that the playhouse, silent to human ears. | and empty to human vision, was tenant 1 less, or dark cold, when the midnight | hour struck. Maychance the spirits of that | vast multitude of the sheeted dead who in | life laughed there year by year and went to God one by one when the summons came, returned and filled the stalls, crowd ed the seats rioted in the gallery, looked upon ghostly players in ghostly play upon the worn stage, and listened to dream music from orchestra called from a ghostly realm. Flared the lights for them, sounded the drum. blared the bugle, trem- bled the strings of harmony Assuredly many of them we loved and that loved the old playhouse in days grown dusky in the gathering shadows of the 1ong-gone years came back to the scene of long-gone joys and sat in the old places at the passing of the playhousei We saw them not, but it is not for us to say that they never locke l in upon us after their ghosty play was done, as if to say farewell before passing for the last time to the realms beyond the shades 1t is not for us to know that no caress was given us by the playgoers from the Unseeni
 If all them that in the changeful years did leave their burdens at the playhouse door could each bring a stone to the old familiar corner Of the streets there might rise from the earth tower the grey clouds would crown. The old house has been the home of laughter many year, the trysting place of lovers, the refuge of the careworn, the bright harbor of age, anchorage of un- rest, abode of brighter dreams that did em- paradise many glad nights Wordless songs of love have answered worthless songs dumb lips quivered, heart called to heart as the divine passion lifted itself wave on wave engulfing souls that answered souls there in view of the unknowing world Lad and lass have grown to man and woman coming to and departing from the wide portal and last night their children took leave of the dear old place and passed out to breast the world; but the children of these when God sends them shall go to another place of play, new-built, new-gilt, and to grow old and grey as the generations pass l To many of us, still small voices cry as the delft finger of memory softly and slow ly turns the pages of the past In the sight of many of us here in the valley a rainbow will span the old play house in these quiet Sabba tn hours, and there shall be tears that may not be stayed, heart
 
 ished treasures of sweet recollection soothe. There is not one of us who has not gone up the wide stairs loving and come down them loving the more. There is not one of us who has not left some weight of the soul there and never returned to claim it. We have gone there with our undertakes and galling loads upon our backs, and pass I ed out into the cool night ito count the ste and J;cta
 We have sat with or near our lovers, and blessed the afternoon or gloried in the night that brought us fuller measure of joy than we knew at dawn. From time to time year in and year out, death came moping to claim some of us, or to bear from us them that were immeasuraby dear and arousing passionate questioning to which there was never vouchsafed answer; but we closed ranks; and recruits came, and mourning changed to cherished sorrow that abided l with us tender as the syllables of a blessed l benediction pronounced in the house of prayer!
 Stout old John Mccullough, Booth, Bar rett, Jefferson, Salvini, Mansfield, Coghlan Mayor, Robson, Modjeska, DArco, Abbott Drew, Jaunascheck, Rose Coghlan, Pixley- thCoc anu dll lllS great ones or a quarter or a century were our interpreters our prophets, guides, and we asked none bet ter. They spoke to one clear harp in divers tones, and taught us many lessons well to know.
 So yesternight marked the passing of O'Brien's opera house, the old play house Of young Birmingham. It is an event of great interest to us here in the valley, for this house of the plays has filled large space in the lives of most of us. It was built at the time when Birmingham began to rise and it's fortunes went up. always up, till they eliminated in the material abandon ment of little more than ten years ago. The town and the house began to go down together and hastened to the terrible crash of '93. Another upward turn began twelvemonth ago, and now when the flower of wonderful prosperity is bursting into full