New-York tribune., 1916-02-28
The Coming Tover
AN ANTHOLOGY OF DIFFERENTIATION.


went to Sothern's sale the other day.
And saw them auction off the faded robes
That Marlowe used to as Juliet.
I saw them scrutinzed by curious eyes,
And paved and thumbed by sacrilegous hands,
Those precious garments that have been forever gloed
By resting their soft fabric that softer breast,
That throbbed and glowed with loves consuming fire;
And paled so piteousy when love lay dead
What largess of sweet sounds upon the air was flung
Whenever Julia Marlowe's voice was heard!
Like mellow flutes and choiring birds,
And the lingering after-chime of golden bells
Enriching deathless time with melody
Within its harmonies were gathered and imprisoned
myriad wonder-echoes of the past;
That from the star-lit night of memory come back
On swift angelic wings. like homeward-seeking birds.
Modieskas flaming passion, and the limpid purity
OF Mary Andersons lesson the PROSTATE ngomar
The siren lure of Bernhardt's hundred voices
Each one gerngy perfect the jewel at her throat
And Janauscheks tumultuous storms Of rage
Resembling like the dapasons of the
Do you remember Waacks playhouse in its prime,
When Booth and Barrett nightly trod its boards?
Small need had they of costly 1rappngs and the play of
lights,
To lend illusion to their mastery.
No Oriental potentate with lavish hand
Did ever scatter to his PROSTATE wOrshippers
The yellow baubles of his treasure chest
One half as freely those monarchs of the stage
Flung broadcast nightly, gallery and pit
The priceless jewels that were crystallzed
BY fires of genius in the crucibes of art
The Erenite of Walden said that we rich
In those things only which do without.
If this be true, the tabled mines of Solomon
Are desert sands compared with those which now
Have been discovered on the playhouse stage.
What boarded wealth is there accumulate
which may enrich us by abandonment
What heaps OF cherished things there
Which we are finding can do without
The footghs and the flies and those painted blackdrops
That hoodwink fancy and begue willing feet
Der distant mountains to the far horizons of the
All stage-craft and the mechanism Of illusion;
All these have gone into the dscardthat makes us rich
And in their place we have installed
a calcium light,
A new-fanged magic lantern,
And a whitewashed wall
Gone into the discard too-that makes us rich
Are gracious voices and beguing words,
That tell in stately marshalled phrase
The million-pictured story Of the world
But this is a futurst age,
That scorns the studied niceties of art;
And elemental passions may be shown in pantomime:
Why then waste words, when swinging arms,
lifted eyebrow a curling lip will tell the tale?
Gone into the discard too--that makes us rich
Is that fine diffusive something call personality;
That spiced aroma of aurement that steals the
footlights
And takes our senses captive; and puts our souls
In willing thrall for short hour
To some transcendent goddess of the mimic world
Gone too into the discard-that makes us rich
Are the little chuckles of enjoyment,
The gggles and the broad contagious laugh;
The white anxious faces and tense muscles of SUSPENSE
The furye tear and the lump in the throat that will not
down.
went to see Camille" the other day,
Displayed upon motion picture screen.
That night I dreamed | went to heaven,
And sat among the stareyed angels Of the spheres
I'm a tremendous stadium in the skies;
And saw Savini's ghost and Mrs. SiddOnss
Playing ping-pong with the Pleiades for balls.
SCARAMoUcH.