The Pacific commercial advertiser. [volume] (Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands) 1885-1921, 1909-07-09

When we were little kiddies and
were told stories before we went to
sleep, there were two that always stood
out as great favorites. There was the
one about the Golden Fleece and the
brave, strong man who cleft his way
through the field sown with dragon s
teeth to snatch the golden fleece from
the bough where it hung, soaked with
dew, and then there was the story
about the old Jew and the pound of
flesh.
What thrills we had when we heard
about the beautiful girl in her lawyer s
gown and unsexed garments, standing
up before the dreadful Doge and
marking fine points of law So that the
horrid old money-lender could not carve
flesh from the man who had been good
enough TO loan her lover money. How
we chortled when we found that the
old Jew not only lost his revenge but
was made to turn half his estate over
to his victim. And then the choosing
of the Baskets. What an appeal it was
to our young imaginations to think that
man should be wise enough to choose
the merely iron box when both gold
and silver were lying there for him to
take.
1t was beautiful story. A human
story and one that will always cling
to us by the simple telling of it when
the mystic hour of between stWell
just one more story and then you go
to Sleep and the coming of the big
Dustman.
And then we grew older and were
taken to see this story told on the
stage. 1t may have been Benson, with
his charming wife as Portia, it may
have been hundred and one other
theatrical companies. But we sat in
a box or down near the front and we
saw the grease paint and the unreality
of the whole stage business and we
recognized the story only just enough
to be sorry that we had come.
The old jew looked like a Jew, but
we could see he was made up for the
part. Portia would have been beau
tiful if the atropin had not made her
eyes squirt. It was a sad disillusion,
ment and it was only the ice cream
and tarts that Aunty treated us to
after the show that made us enthuse
when we got home and were telling
about it,
But last night, few of us, only
a very, very few of us who have been
through that same hard disillusionment,
had the delight of going back to the
old days and having the story told as
it should be told.
Marshall Darrach stood on the plat
form, he waved his hands and spoke
few words. Suddenly we were AL ly-
ing in our cots once again and listen
ing to the story. Venice lay smiling in
the distance and the vineyard clad road
rolled white and shiny in the sun back
to the city of Padua.
Antonio stood on the wharves and
sadly shook his head as his ship
wrecked captains brought back the
news of the disasters to his ships.
There was fair Portia openly avowing
her love for Lord Bassanio and there
was the noble youth making his hard
thought choice of baskets.
To say that it was great would be
vandalism. In fact it takes an appeal
TO the Imagination to describe just
how good it was. That story of the
man who borrowed money to help his
friend, of the hard luck that followed,
of the way in which "The Girl -
sought out her uncle and learned
enough of law to confound all the
wiseacres, of the swift weddings and
the final happy outcome, of the every
day-and therefore appealing-humor
of the serving man and his lass, that
is a story that has never been beaten
IT. the telling by what Marshall Oar
rach. the Irish wizard, did last night
at the Young Hotel.
Darrach has given us straight come