The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-03-14
LAST OF A GREAT RACE.
The Negro MinstreIs and Their Mis-
sion of Gayety.


New York Sun.
Billy West, Billy Emerson Billy Rice
the stars fall fast. Yet these artists had
all but survived their art, for negro min
strelsy seems doomed, nor can even the
witty Mr.. Dockstader give il a long re-
prieve. The public taste changed; the
minstrels relied too much on their old
laurels and wore out their welcome. We
know the weakness of the praisers of past
time, and we will not say that the theater
al present seems TO be intended mainly for
the benefit or dertiment OF girls too young
TO appreciate IL, or as a means OF passing
an evening to well-dreSsed, well-fed, mostly
unima ginative folks to whom it represents
a few hours rest, the interval between
dinner and supper at one of the lobster
palaces of which New York will soon prin-
cipally consist.
1t seems. though, though tastes and
times were simpler once. Perhaps people
laughed more easily. The generation that
felt the death or Dickens as a personal
loss had the gift of hearty laughter. Dur
ing the civil war and after, there was a
natural reaction toward gayety. The great
gods of ennui, the lbsens and the Tolstois,
were not droning yet. People were will
ing TO enjoy themselves in their own way:
and a manager couldn't boost a stick into
a star, and Playwright was not a cheap
pathologiSt. Burton had not long been
dead; Wallack was still In his prime. The
name of John Brougham will recall 10 many
not yet decrepit something OF the gayety
of temper, the high spirits OF those not al
together remote days. Mr.. Joseph jefferson
is the one eminent survivor of the eminent
actors on whom the patrons OF negro min
strelsy in its best estate were brought up.
Why, the boys who waited with beating
hearts for the curtain TO rise, who wouldn I
have missed sound of the orchestra, VINO
yelled ferociously at the appearance OF
a ''supe," had heard Eddie Booth offer
his kingdom for a horse, especially OF a
Saturday night and felt their hair stand
up ; Ned Forrest cursed Goneril and
Kegan with all the wind of those ire
mendous lungs
Negro minstrelsy was no foolish within.
II was legitimate art in its good time and
Mr. Dockstader and Mr.. Primrose have not
forgotten the traditions A long beadroil
of names and companies comes to the mind.
The rattle of the bones tickles the ear
agreeably. The eye OF memory sees those
preposterOusly black faces. impossible red
IDS, abysmal mouths, wOrd-shaplng feet
Where did those monumental shoes come
from? The banjo has fallen into the hands
of the girls-luck banjo,-and they play
il as If they We're petting canary bird OF
toying with a caramel. The old MINISTRIES
used TO whack it, thump IL, take il by vio-
lence They were rObustious with il, and
yet they dragged sweet tones out of IL.
The dialogues between the interlocutOr
and Mr. Bones were meatier IL less artistic
than Platos. The songs. comic or senti-
mental. were given with Irresistible
heartiness, often with clever art We can
see Billy Emerson as Policeman MorIarity
threatening the truckman: I'm have you
Off that dray for ogling the ladies'
The girls all cry.
As / go by,
Are you there. Mo-ri-ar-i-tee?"
Good old Billy He used 10 make every
body feel just as happy as big sunfiower.