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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Broadway Anthology
+
+Author: Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+Release Date: February 21, 2005 [EBook #15120]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The
+Broadway Anthology
+
+
+BY
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+
+NEW YORK
+DUFFIELD & COMPANY
+1917
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, 1917
+BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY
+
+
+VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
+BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+Acknowledgment is due to the _New York Evening
+Post_, _Sun_, _Times_, _Tribune_, the _Boston Transcript_
+and the _Wilmarth Publishing Company_ for their kind
+permission to reprint some of the matter in this volume.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+
+ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
+THE BARITONE
+PATRIOTISM
+THE PILLOW CASES
+BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS
+THE PRIMA DONNA
+PRESS STORIES
+THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT
+TEARS
+PHOTOGRAPHS
+
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+
+THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM
+THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR
+THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER
+THE JESTER
+IN A CAFE
+TO A CABARET SINGER
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+
+LO, THE PRESS AGENT
+FIRST NIGHTS
+THE DRAMATIST
+TYPES
+GEORGE M. COHAN
+DAVID BELASCO
+LO, THE HEADLINER
+
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+THE SCREEN
+BROADWAY--NIGHT
+MATINEE
+PAVLOWA
+THE OLD CHORUS MAN
+BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE
+PRE-EMINENCE
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+
+
+
+
+ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
+
+He was a burly Dutch tenor,
+And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours
+That I might not lose a story,--
+But his life was commonplace and unimaginative--
+Air raids and abdications kept his activities,
+(A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown),
+Out of the papers.
+I watchfully waited,
+Yearning a coup that would place him on the
+Musical map.
+A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre,
+Aeroplaning over the bay,
+Diving with Annette Kellerman.
+Then for three days I quit the city
+To get a simple contralto into the western papers.
+Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled.
+The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire;
+Tremor and emotion choked his throat.
+This was his ominous message:
+A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago;
+He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice--
+And not a line in the mornings or evenings!
+What could I do about it?
+Accidents will happen.
+
+
+THE BARITONE
+
+He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.
+His name had been blazoned over these United States,
+And in Europe it was as well known.
+Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;
+Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.
+In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago
+At a festival where thousands were to foregather
+To do praise to him and his voice.
+Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office
+With a sickly expression all over his rotund face
+And a deathly gasp in his voice.
+One thought he needed a doctor,
+Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.
+He was ushered into the private office
+To find out his trouble.
+This was his lament in short;
+A friend, in the hurry of the moment,
+Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century
+Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,--
+And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.
+So we got him tickets on another road
+Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,
+And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States
+And was as well known in Europe,
+Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.
+
+
+PATRIOTISM
+
+The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men
+Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch
+For these were patriotic concerts,
+Supported by the leading patriots of the town,
+(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),
+And all the musicians were getting union wages--and in the summer at that.
+So they were patriotic too.
+The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,
+For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,
+But when the manager asked him to play a number
+Designated as "Dixie,"
+He disposed of it shortly with the words:
+"It is too trivial--that music."
+And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,--
+(Because he was a Welshman)....
+The audience left after the concert was over
+And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit"
+By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.
+
+
+THE PILLOW CASES
+
+The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,
+But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.
+The reporters of the leading dailies
+Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.
+For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,
+And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.
+Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.
+What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets
+Awaiting him impatiently at the station?
+It's a bed he wants--any bed will do;
+The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.
+But in cooking the news for the public
+One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.
+So they rushed the star with these questions:
+"Not conscripted yet?..."
+"How do you like this town?..."
+"Will you give any encores tomorrow?..."
+"When will the war end?..."
+Ruthlessly he plowed through them,
+Like a British tank at Messines.
+The tenor wanted a bed,
+But Lesville wanted a story....
+On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,
+Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,
+Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.
+Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,
+"Pillows and pillows and pillow...." was whispered,
+"Tonight he will sleep on them."
+Vulture-like swooped down the porters,
+Bearing them off to the taxis.
+Next morning the papers carried the story:
+"Singer Transports His Own Bedding,"
+But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.
+The baggage held scores for the orchestra.
+
+
+BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS
+
+He was the head of a large real estate firm,
+And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society.
+They were going to have an exhibit in their church building,
+At which it was to be proved
+That giving a gold watch for an invention
+That made millions for the factory owner
+Was worthwhile.
+But they needed a press agent
+To let the world and themselves
+Know that what they were doing was good.
+I was chosen for the work,
+But the head of the large real estate firm
+Thought that half a column a day was too little
+To record the fact that a cash register company
+In which he owned stock
+Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them
+At the same salary for fifteen years.
+So he had me fired.
+And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success.
+And many of the morning and evening newspapers
+Ran editorials about it.
+
+
+THE PRIMA DONNA
+
+She had been interviewed at all possible times,--
+And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones;
+But it did not matter to her
+As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly.
+So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day
+To take pictures of her in her drawing room.
+He was an ungentle photographer
+Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women
+Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete
+Without limbs being crossed or suchwise.
+But she did not mind even that,
+If the pictures were published the next day.
+He took a great number of her in her salon,
+And departed happy at the day's bagging.
+A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available
+And no photographs were printed the next day
+Of the prima donna.
+And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly:
+"Je vous ne parle plus" and looked at me harshly.
+Was I to blame for the international situation?
+
+
+PRESS STORIES
+
+Though bandsmen's notes from the street below resound,
+And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday,
+I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter,
+By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor.
+The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle.
+But the local manager in Iowa wants the story.
+He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March
+When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners.
+He wants the concert to be such a success,
+That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground
+Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned.
+So he has wired in for this tale about the singer,
+A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem.
+And though the call is to the street below,
+Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday,
+I must finish the story about the tenor's wife and baby
+To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned.
+
+
+THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT
+
+The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway.
+Where to put the credit? On the astute manager
+Who saw in it
+A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies;
+Or the League of Public Spirited Women
+Banded together to uplift the Drama--
+That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public.
+It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre
+Miserably,
+Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies.
+But this come-back
+At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds
+That would save it--
+Was the universal verdict.
+During the first week there was a tremendous fight
+Between the two factions for the
+Distribution of credit, and some critics said
+The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible
+For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it,
+And others said it was the astute manager.
+But no audience came to the play after the second week.
+And it went to the storehouse.
+No one fought any longer for
+The distribution of credit.
+
+
+TEARS
+
+Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon,
+A hurry call from the Ritz,
+Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour,
+With twenty-four sheets and large heralds,
+And a page or two in all the dailies....
+She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz,
+Discussing with her husband,
+Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina
+Her new pet charity;
+And she had called me in at this very moment,
+Because she had struck a snag.
+This was her charity:
+She related with tears in her eyes,
+What was she to do about it?
+She received no response from the American public.
+The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres
+They were out of work--destitute--
+The theatres closed--and all the actors at the front.
+But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands?
+That was her query.
+And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke
+While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa--
+I sat and discussed the question.
+And tears came to my eyes,
+But my tears were wept for another reason.
+
+
+PHOTOGRAPHS
+
+I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna.
+They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine.
+Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron;
+He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair;
+He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them.
+I felt happy that I changed photographers.
+I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate
+Would bring glory and money to many.
+I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises.
+The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,--
+It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself;
+But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed.
+There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice;
+It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies.
+"How dare you use those terrible photographs?"
+"What do you mean by insulting my beauty?"
+There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,--
+I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice.
+
+
+
+
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+
+
+
+
+THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN
+DREAMS A DREAM
+
+When morning mingles with the gloom
+On empty stage and twilit aisle,
+She comes with rag and pan and broom
+To work--and dream awhile.
+
+Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears,
+The mimic loves of yesternight,
+On empty stages of the years
+Awake in the dim light.
+
+She cannot sweep the phantoms out--
+How sweet the sobbing violin!--
+She cannot put the ghosts to rout--
+How pale the heroine!
+
+Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!--
+'Tis only dust that fills her eyes--
+But he shall have his lovely bride
+And she her paradise!
+
+And she--the broom falls from her hands,
+And is it dust that fills her eyes?--
+Shall go with him to golden lands
+And find her paradise!--
+
+The morning wrestles with the gloom
+On silent stage and chilly aisle,
+She takes her rag and pan and broom
+To work--and dream awhile!
+
+
+THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL
+COMEDY STAR
+
+The lady cannot sing a note,
+There is a languor in her throat
+Beyond all healing,
+She does not act at all, it seems,
+Except in early morning dreams--
+She lacks the feeling.
+
+Her feet are pretty, but methinks,
+The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx
+Could trip as lightly--
+And yet she is a regular,
+Serene and well established star
+Who twinkles nightly.
+
+And Solomon for all his stir,
+Had not a single jewel on her,
+Nor did his capers
+Procure him even half the space
+For publication of his face
+In ancient papers.
+
+Her gowns, her furs, her limousines
+Would catch the eye of stately queens
+In any city--
+She cannot sing, or dance or act,
+But then I have remarked the fact--
+Her feet are pretty.
+
+
+THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE
+MANAGER
+
+A moment since, the office boy,
+Invisible as Night itself,
+Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf
+And tasted peace, without alloy.
+
+Secure from all the day's alarms,
+Of boss and bell the very jinx,
+He gazed immobile as the Sphinx
+On pompous front and painted charms.
+
+Now out of interstellar space,
+Beyond the sunlight and the storm,
+Appears that lightning-laden form,
+That toothful smile, that cryptic face.
+
+Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?--
+He was so hid from mortal eyes,
+Perhaps he fell from paradise,
+Perhaps they chased him out of hell.
+
+But now his heels show everywhere,
+A dozen doors are opened wide,
+He stands before, behind, beside,
+He fills the ether and the air.
+
+Far quicker than a wink or beck,
+Far sleeker than a juvenile,
+He barely tops the giant smile
+That wreathes his forehead and his neck.
+
+Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross!
+Who wrought the shining miracle?
+What magic cast the dazzling spell?--
+The star is here to see the boss!
+
+
+THE JESTER
+
+All the fool's gold of the world,
+All your dusty pageantries,
+All your reeking praise of Self,
+All your wise men's sophistries,
+All that springs of golden birth,
+Is not half the jester's worth!
+
+Who's the jester? He is one,
+Who behind the scenes hath been,
+Caught Life with his make-up off,
+Found him but a harlequin
+Cast to play a tragic part--
+And the two laughed, heart to heart!
+
+
+IN A CAFÈ
+
+Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,
+Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth;
+And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,
+But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!"
+
+She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,
+And I said: "Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?"
+And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,
+But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!"
+
+
+TO A CABARET SINGER
+
+Painted little singer of a painted song,
+Painted little butterfly of a painted day,
+The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,
+The cold of your caresses,
+I'll tell you what they say--
+"The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
+The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,
+The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay."
+
+Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,
+Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,
+'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)
+'Tis not your sham sad poses
+That tell your hollow day--
+The glass is at _my_ lips, but the wine is far away,
+The music's in _my_ throat, but my soul no song discloses,
+The laughter's on _my_ tongue, but my heart is clay.
+
+
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+Weep not, fair lady, for the false,
+The fickle love's rememberance,
+What though another claim the waltz--
+The curtain soon will close the dance.
+
+Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,
+Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;
+The longest scene as Time is fleet--
+The curtain soon will close the kiss.
+
+And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,
+Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,
+No ruin is too mean for Time--
+The curtain soon will close the play.
+
+
+
+
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+
+
+
+
+LO, THE PRESS AGENT
+
+By many names men call me--
+Press agent, publicity promoter, faker;
+Ofttimes the short and simple liar.
+Charles A. Dana told me
+I was a buccaneer
+On the high seas of journalism.
+Many a newspaper business manager
+Has charged me
+With selling his space
+Over his head.
+Every one loves me
+When I get his name into print--
+For this is an age of publicity
+And he who bloweth not his own horn
+The same shall not be blown.
+I have sired, nursed and reared
+Many reputations.
+Few men or women have I found
+Scornful of praise or blame
+In the press.
+The folk of the stage
+Live on publicity,
+Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it,
+Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it,
+Ofttimes do that for it
+Which must make the God Notoriety
+Grin at the weakness of mortals.
+I hold a terrible power
+And sometimes my own moderation
+Amazes me,
+For I can abase as well as elevate,
+Tear down as well as build up.
+I know all the ways of fair speaking
+And can lead my favorites
+To fame and golden rewards.
+There are a thousand channels
+Through which press agency can exploit
+Its star or its movement
+Never obvious but like the submarine
+Submersible beneath the sea
+Of publicity.
+But I know, too, of the ways
+That undo in Manhattan.
+There are bacilli of rumor
+That slip through the finest of filters
+And defy the remedial serums
+Of angry denial.
+Pin a laugh to your tale
+When stalking your enemy
+And not your exile nor your death
+Will stay the guffaws of merriment
+As the story flies
+Through the Wicked Forties
+And on to the "Road."
+Laughter gives the rumor strong wings.
+Truly the press agent,
+Who knows his psychology,
+Likewise his New York
+In all of its ramifications,
+And has a nimble wit,
+Can play fast and loose
+With the lives of many.
+Nevertheless he has no great reward,
+And most in the theatre
+Draw fatter returns than he.
+Yet is he called upon to make the show,
+To save the show,
+But never is he given credit
+Comparable to that which falls
+Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer
+Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit.
+Yet is the press agent happy;
+He loves his work;
+It has excitement and intrigue;
+And to further the cause of beautiful women,
+To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre,
+And lead them in progress triumphal
+Till their names outface the jealous night,
+On Broadway, in incandescents,
+Is in itself a privilege.
+That compensates
+For the wisdom of the cub reporter,
+The amusement of the seasoned editor,
+Shredding the cherished story
+And uprooting the flourishing "plant";
+Makes one forgive
+The ingratitude of artists arrived.
+They who do not love me
+I hope to have fear me;
+There is only one hell,
+And that is to be disregarded.
+
+
+FIRST NIGHTS
+
+August heat cannot weaken nor flivvers stale
+Our first-night expectance when the new season opens.
+Come on, boys and girls, the gang's all here;
+The Death Watch is ready in orchestra chairs
+Still shrouded in summer's cool slip pajamas,
+And the undertakers of stage reputations
+Are gathered to chatter about author and players,
+And give them and their work disrespectful interment
+By gleefully agreeing in that sage Broadway saying:
+"Oh, what an awful oil can that piece turned out to be!"
+It's hard when the Chanters of Death-House Blues
+Have to turn to each other and reluctantly murmur:
+"I'm afraid it's a hit--the poor fish is lucky."
+First-nighters are the theatre's forty-niners,
+Making the early rush to new dramatic gold fields,
+And usually finding them barren.
+Often must it madden the playwright to offer his ideals
+To an audience whose personnel would for the most part
+Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness;
+To show sweetness and beauty and color
+To those whose knowledge of tints is confined
+To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers;
+To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind,
+When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment.
+How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal,
+To whom the final appeal must be made
+Frequents our first nights on Broadway?
+Costumers, friends of the author, and critics,
+Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned,
+Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation,
+Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players,
+Hearty laughers or ready weepers "planted."
+Most of them there prepare for a funeral;
+Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances,
+And he or she who nods the most times
+Is thereby the greatest first-nighter.
+Some managers open to hand-picked audiences,
+Others strive to escape the regulars;
+But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces
+That really mean so little in the life of the play.
+Listen to the comments during intermission:
+"It doesn't get over!" "It's a flop!"
+"What atmosphere!" "An absolute steal!"
+"Such originality!" "Not a bit life-like!"
+"That author has a wonderful memory!"
+"He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!"
+"He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!"
+"They grabbed that number in London!"
+"She's one of his tigers!"
+"From a Lucile model, my dear, but home-made!"
+"I can't hand him anything on this one!"
+"Some heavy-sugar papa backed the production!"
+"Isn't my boy wonderful!"
+"Yes, but my girl is running away with the piece!"
+"If you like this, you're not well!"
+"What could be sweeter!"
+"What large feet she has!" "His Adam's apple annoys me!"
+"She must get her clothes on Avenue A!"
+"They say she was born there!"
+"What an awful sunburn!"
+"Best thing in years!" "The storehouse for this one!"
+"Did you catch her going up in her lines?"
+"Yes, and he's fluffing all over the place!"
+"Splendidly produced, don't you think?"
+"I think the stage direction is rotten!"
+So I suggest the old Roman fashion of presenting,
+The artists, like gladiators crying:
+"We, who are about to die, salute you!"
+
+
+THE DRAMATIST
+
+I've put one over at last!
+My play with the surprise finish is a bear.
+Al Woods wants to read all of my scripts;
+Georgie Cohan speaks to me as an equal
+And the office boy swings the gate without being asked.
+I don't care if the manager's name is as large as the play's
+Or if the critics are featured all over the ash cans.
+I'm going to get mine and I'm going to live.
+A Rolls-Royce for me and trips "up the road,"
+Long Beach and pretty girls, big eats at the Ritz
+And the ice pitcher for the fellows who snubbed me.
+How the other reporters laughed
+When I showed my first script and started to peddle!
+"Stick to the steady job," they advised.
+"Play writing is too big a gamble;
+It will never keep your nose in the feed bag."
+I wrote a trunkful of junk; did a play succeed,
+I immediately copied the fashion;
+Like a pilfering tailor I stole the new models.
+Kind David Belasco, with his face in the gloom,
+And mine brightly lighted, said ministerially:
+"Rather crude yet, my boy, but the way to write a play
+Is to write plays from sunrise to sunset
+And rewrite them long after midnight.
+Try, try, try, my boy, and God bless you."
+Broke and disgusted, I became a play reader
+And the "yessir man" to a manager.
+I was a play doctor, too.
+A few of my patients lived
+And I learned about drama from them.
+How we gutted the scripts!
+Grabbing a wonderful line, a peach of a scene,
+A gem of a finish
+Out of the rubbish that struggling poor devils
+Borrowed money to typewrite and mail to us.
+It's like opening oysters looking for pearls,
+But pearls are to be found and out of the shell heaps
+Come jewels that, polished and set by a clever artificer,
+Are a season's theatrical wonder.
+Finally came my own big idea.
+I wrote and rewrote and cast and recast,
+Convinced the manager, got a production.
+Here am I young and successful,
+And Walter and Thomas and Selwyn have nothing on me.
+Press agents are hired to praise me.
+Watch for my next big sensation,
+But meanwhile I hope that that play-writing plumber,
+Who had an idea and nothing else,
+Never sees this one.
+
+
+TYPES
+
+They've got me down for a hick, bo,
+Sam Harris says I'm the best boob in the biz,
+And that no manager will cast me for anything else.
+Curses on my hit in "'Way Down East"
+That handcuffs me forever to yokels,
+And me a better character actor than Corse Payton!
+That's how it is they're stuck on types,
+And the wise guy who plays anything
+Isn't given a look-in.
+Listen to me, young feller, and don't ever
+Let 'em tab you for keeps as a type.
+It's curtains for a career as sure as you're born.
+Why, there's actors sentenced to comedy dog parts,
+To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs.
+There ain't no release for them.
+The producers and managers can see only one angle,
+And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern.
+It's outrageous that's what it is, that make-up
+And character acting should be thrown in the discard.
+You can sit in an agent's office for months
+Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin'.
+This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art
+And a stock training ain't what it used to be.
+Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel
+Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I'll kick or I'll bite
+The type-choosing manager.
+
+
+GEORGE M. COHAN
+
+Blessed be Providence
+That gave us our Cohan;
+Irreverent,
+Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing
+George M.
+Nothing in life
+Better becomes him
+Than his earliest choice
+Of Jerry and Helen
+For father and mother;
+Bred in the wings and the dressing room,
+The theatre alley his playground,
+Hotels his home and his schoolhouse,
+Blessed with a wonderful sister,
+And in love with a violin.
+From baby days used to the footlights,
+With infrequent teachers of book lore
+In the cities of lengthy engagements
+Showing him pages of learning
+That he turned from to life's open volume,
+Acquiring indelible lessons,
+Loyalty, candor, clear seeing,
+Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own,
+Passion for all things American.
+From Jerry, his father,
+Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance,
+And devotion to things of the theatre;
+From Helen, his mother,
+Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit,
+Fineness of soul.
+Early he turned from his fiddle
+To write popular songs
+And tunes so whistly and catchy
+That the music of a child
+Enraptured the nation.
+Then followed comedy sketches,
+Gay little pieces that made public
+And player-folk chatter of Cohan.
+Later, essaying the musical comedy,
+He wrote "Running for Office,"
+To be followed by that impudent
+Classic of fresh young America,
+"Little Johnnie Jones."
+One followed another in rapid succession;
+His name grew a cherished possession,
+And ever his dancing delighted.
+His manner of singing and speaking
+Provoked to endless imitation.
+His personality became better known
+Then the President's.
+Always he soared in ambition
+And, becoming a lord of the theatre,
+He ventured on serious drama,
+And out of his wisdom and watching
+Wrote masterful plays,
+Envisaging the types of our natives.
+Truly a genius,
+Genius in friendship, genius in stagecraft,
+Genius in life!
+Even in choosing a partner
+He fattened his average,
+Batting four hundred
+By taking a kindred irreverent soul,
+Graduated out of the whirlpool
+That wrecks all but the strongest,
+Born on the eastern edge
+Of Manhattan,
+Sam H. Harris, man of business,
+Who to the skill of the trader
+Adds the joy in life
+And the sense of humor,
+Coupled with pleasure in giving
+And helping
+That Cohan demands of his pals.
+Together they plan wonderful projects,
+And the artist soul
+And the soul of commerce
+Are an unbeatable union.
+Best of all about Cohan
+Is his congenital manliness.
+He sees Americans
+As our soil and our air and our water
+Have made them;
+Types as distinct as the Indian.
+He follows no school,
+Knows little of movements artistic.
+A lonely creator,
+His friends are not writing men,
+Reformers, uplifters or zealots.
+He writes the life he has lived
+So fully and zestfully,
+And over it all plays like sheet lightning
+A beneficent humor.
+Growth is his hall-mark,
+Hard work his chief recreation;
+Not Balzac could toil with labor titanic
+More terribly.
+George M. Cohan,
+Excelling in everything--
+Beloved son, brother, father, partner, friend,
+Our best-beloved man of the theatre.
+
+
+DAVID BELASCO
+
+King David of old slew the Philistines;
+Our David has made them admirers and patrons;
+He has numbered the people
+Night after night in his theatres.
+Will he ever, I wonder, send forth for the Shunammite?
+Many there be who would answer his calling,
+For he has shown ambitious fair women
+To acting's high places.
+As Rodin in marble saw wondrous creations
+To be freed by the chisel,
+So Belasco in immature genius and beauty
+Sees the resplendent star to be kindled
+At his own steady beacon.
+Too varied a mind for our comprehension,
+Too big and too broad and too subtle
+To be understood of the bourgeois American
+Whom he has led decade after decade
+By a nose ring artistic.
+Capable of everything, he has worked
+With the ease of a master, giving the public
+Marvelous detail, unfailing sensation and poses pictorial;
+Preferring the certain success to arduous striving
+For the more excellent things of the future.
+Like David his forebear, a king but no prophet,
+Amazingly wise in his own generation.
+A wizard in art of the everyday,
+Lord of the spotlight and dimmer,
+But nursing the unconquerable hope, the inviolable shade
+Of what in his dreams Oriental
+He fain would do, did not necessity drive him.
+His the fascination of a great personality.
+Who knoweth not him of the clerical collar?
+Hair of the sage and eyes of the poet,
+Features perfectly drawn and as mobile
+As those of the inspired actor;
+With speech so much blander than honey
+And insight that maketh his staged stumbling in bargains
+Cover the shrewdness of a masterly trader.
+None better than he knoweth the crowd and its likings,
+As to using the patter of drama artistic,
+That's where he lives.
+With incense and color and scenery
+He refilleth the bottle of art so that the contents
+Go twice better than in the original package.
+Thanks be to David for joy in the playhouse.
+Wizard, magician, necromancer of switchboards,
+He hath woven spells from the actual,
+Keeping ideals and ideas well in the background.
+Like Gautier, these things delight him:
+Gold, marble and purple; brilliance, solidity, color.
+He can stage Tiffany's jewels but not Maeterlinck's bees.
+Deep in his soul there are tempests
+Revealed in the storms of his dramas--
+Sandstorm and snowstorm, rainstorm and hurricane.
+That nature revealed in its subtle reactions
+Would show in its deeps the soul of an Angelo
+Subdued to success and dyed by democracy.
+Opportunism hath made him
+An artistic materialist.
+One work remains for David Belasco,
+And that is to stage with patient precision
+A cross section in drama of his own self-surprising,
+Making the world sit up and take notice
+With what "masterly detail," "unfailing atmosphere,"
+"Startling reality" he can star David Belasco.
+
+
+LO, THE HEADLINER
+
+I was not raised for vaudeville.
+Father and mother were veteran legits;
+They loved the Bard and the "Lady of Lyons."
+I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland;
+I was carried on as a child
+When the farm girl revealed her shame
+On the night of the snowstorm.
+The old folks died with grease paint on their faces.
+I did a little of everything
+Even to staking out a pitch in a street fair.
+Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhoo
+And to make openings.
+I stole the business of Billy Sunday
+And imitated William Jennings Bryan.
+I became famous in the small towns.
+One day Poli heard me--
+He's the head of the New England variety circuit.--
+"Cul," he said, "you are a born monologist.
+Where you got that stuff I don't know,
+But you would be a riot in the two-a-day.
+Quit this hanky-panky
+And I'll make you a headliner."
+Well, I fell for his line of talk
+Like the sod busters had fallen for mine.
+Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue;
+Max Marx made me a suit of clothes;
+And Lew Dockstader wised me up
+On how to jockey my laughs.
+I opened in Hartford;
+Believe me, I was some scream.
+I gave them gravy, and hokum,
+And when they ate it up I came through
+With the old jasbo,
+Than which there is nothing so efficacious
+In vaudeville, polite or otherwise.
+The first thing I did I hollered for more dough,
+And Poli says:
+"That's what I get for feeding you meat,
+But you are a riot all right, all right,
+So I guess you are on for more kale."
+I kept getting better.
+I got so's I could follow any act at all
+And get my laughs.
+And he who getteth his laughs
+Is greater than he who taketh a city.
+At last the Palace Theatre sent for me
+And I signed up for a week.
+They kept me two.
+I am a headliner;
+I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street
+And Little Old Broadway;
+Throw out my chest,
+Call the agents and vaudeville magnates
+By their first names.
+I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport.
+
+
+
+
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+
+
+
+THE SCREEN
+
+From midnight till the following noon
+I stand in shadow,
+Just a splotch of white,
+Unnoted by the cleaning crew
+Who've spent their hours of toil
+That I might live again.
+Yet they hold no reverence for my charms,
+And if they pause amid their work
+They do not glance at me;
+All their admiration, all their awe,
+Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home
+That's built to house my wonders;
+Or for the gorgeous murals all around,
+Which really, after all,
+Were put in place as most lame substitutes,
+Striving to soothe the patron's ire
+For those few moments when my face is dark.
+Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me,
+And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach
+The tides of people flow to me.
+
+All things I am to everyone;
+The newsboys, shopgirls,
+And all starved souls
+Who've clutched at life and missed,
+See in my magic face,
+The lowly rise to fame and palaces,
+See virtue triumph every time
+And rich and wicked justly flayed.
+Old men are tearful
+When I show them what they might have been.
+And others, not so old,
+Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales.
+The lovers see new ways to woo;
+And wives see ways to use old brooms.
+Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd
+Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me
+Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets.
+Then some there are who watch my changing face
+To catch new history's shadow
+As it falls from day to day.
+And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet,
+In time to music of the warring tribes,
+The shadow men across my face
+Seem living with the hope or dread
+Of those who watch them off to wars.
+
+In sordid substance I am but a sheet,
+A fabric of some fireproof stuff.
+And yet, in every port where ships can ride,
+In every nook where there is breath of life,
+Intrepid men face death
+To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world
+Lest I lose some charming facet of my face.
+And all the masters of all time
+Have thrummed their harps
+And bowed their violins
+To fashion melodies that might be played
+The while I tell my tales.
+O you who hold the mirror up to nature,
+Behold my cosmic scope:
+I am the mirror of the whirling globe.
+
+
+BROADWAY--NIGHT
+
+I saw the rich in motor cars
+Held in long lines
+Until cross-streams of cars flowed by;
+I saw young boys in service clothes
+And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors;
+I saw some thousand drifting men
+Some thousand aimless women;
+I saw some thousand wearied eyes
+That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights
+Which blazoned everywhere;
+I saw a man stop in his walk
+To pet an old black cat.
+
+
+MATINEE
+
+They pass the window
+Where I sit at work,
+In silks and furs
+And boots and hats
+All of the latest mode.
+They chatter as they pass
+Of various things
+But hardly hear the words they speak
+So tense are they
+Upon a life they know begins for them
+At 2:15.
+
+Within the theatre
+The air is pungent with the mixed perfumes,
+More scents than ever blew from Araby.
+And there's a rapid hum
+Of some six hundred secrets;
+Then sudden hush
+As tongues and violins cease.
+
+The play is on.
+
+There is a hastening of the beat
+Of some six hundred hearts.
+There're twitches soon about the lips,
+And later copious tears
+From waiting eyes;
+But all this time
+There are six hundred separate souls
+The playwright's puppet has to woo,
+To win, to humor, or to cajole,
+Until, with master stroke
+Of Devil knowledge,
+Or old Adam's,
+He crushes in his manful arms
+The languid heroine
+And forcing back her golden head
+Implants the kiss.
+
+And then against his heaving breast
+The hero feels the beatings of six hundred hearts
+In mighty unison,
+And on his lips there is the pulse
+Of that one lingering kiss
+Returned six-hundred fold.
+
+
+PAVLOWA
+
+I was working on _The Daily News_
+When I first heard of her,
+And from that time
+Until the day she came to town
+I longed to see her dance.
+The night the dancer and her ballet came
+The Desk assigned me to my nightly run
+Of hotels, clubs, and undertakers' shops;
+I was so green
+I had not learned
+The art of using telephones
+To make it seem
+That I was hot upon the trail of news
+While loafing otherwhere.
+How could I do my trick
+And also see her dance?
+So I left bread and butter flat,
+To feast my eyes, which had been prairie-fed,
+Upon this vision from another world.
+
+I'd seen the wind
+Go rippling over seas of wheat;
+I'd stood at night within a wood
+And felt the pulse of growing things
+Upon the April air;
+I'd seen the hawks arise and soar;
+And dragon-flies
+At sunrise over misty pools--
+But all these things had never known a name
+Until I saw Pavlowa dance.
+
+Next day the editor explained
+That although art was--art,
+He'd found a boy to take my place.
+The days that followed
+When I walked the town
+Seeking for some sort of work,
+The haze of Indian Summer
+Blended with the dream
+Of that one night's magic.
+And though I needed work to keep alive
+My thoughts would go no further
+Than Pavlowa as the maid Giselle ...
+Then cold days came,
+And found the dream a fabric much too thin;
+And finally a job,
+And I was back to stomach fare.
+
+But through the years
+I've nursed the sacrifice,
+Counting it a tribute
+Unlike all the things
+That Kings and Queens have laid before her feet;
+And wishing somehow she might know
+About the price
+The cub reporter paid
+To see Pavlowa dance.
+
+And then by trick of time,
+We came together at the Hippodrome;
+And every day I saw her dance.
+One morning in the darkened wings
+I saw a big-eyed woman in a filmy thing
+Go through the exercises
+Athletes use when training for a team;
+And from a stage-hand learned
+That this Pavlowa, incomparable one,
+Out of every day spent hours
+On elementary practice steps.
+And now somehow
+I can not find the heart
+To tell Pavlowa of the price I paid
+To see her dance.
+
+
+THE OLD CHORUS MAN
+
+He's played with Booth,
+He's shared applause with Jefferson,
+He's run the gamut of the soul
+Imparting substance to the shadow men
+Masters have fashioned with their quills
+And set upon the boards.
+Great men-of-iron were his favored rôles,
+(Once he essayed Napoleon).
+And now, unknowing, he plays his greatest tragedy:
+Dressed in a garb to look like service clothes,
+Cheeks lit by fire--of make-up box,
+He marches with a squad of sallow youths
+And bare-kneed girls,
+Keeping step to tattoo of the drums
+Beat by some shapely maids in tights,
+While close by in the silent streets
+There march long files of purposed men
+Who go to death, perhaps,
+For the same cause he travesties
+Within the playhouse walls.
+
+
+BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE
+
+When I was old enough to walk
+I rode a circus horse;
+My first teeth held me swinging from a high trapeze.
+About the age young men go out to colleges
+I trudged the sanded vasts of Northern Africa,
+Top-mounter in a nomad Arab tumbling troupe.
+I was Christian, that is white and Infidel,
+So old Abdullah took me in his tent
+And stripping off my white man's clothes
+Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls,
+Laughing the while about the potency of juice
+That would prove armour 'gainst some zealot's scimitar.
+Four camels made our caravan
+And these we also used for "props."
+When we played a Morocco town
+The chieftain met us at the hamlet's edge
+Asked of Abdullah what his mission there,
+Then let us enter
+He leading our caravan to the chieftain's hut,
+Where we sat upon the sand
+The thirty odd of us
+Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs.
+The hookah solemnly was passed around
+And then the hamlet chief would speak;
+"Stranger, why have you forsaken home
+And drawn believers after you,
+You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth,
+No jewels nor any merchantry?"
+
+           And then Abdullah:
+"True, Allah's precious son,
+We trade in naught men feed their bellies on
+But we have wares to thrill brave men,
+To make your youth see what use bodies are,
+To make your women blush
+That they have no such men."
+
+"What are these magic wares?"
+
+"Why we have here an Arab youth
+Who seems possessed of wings,
+Jumping three camels in a row."
+
+"So! In this very village there's a lad
+Who jumps four camels
+With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy."
+
+Scoff followed boast and back again
+Until the chief arose,
+Saying to the lesser chiefs
+That they should call the local tribe
+To meet beside the caravanserai
+Before another sun went down
+To see if these vain wandering men
+Could do one half the deeds they boasted.
+
+So we met at sundown,
+Our brown men stripped
+Except for linen clouts.
+We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids,
+And whirled as only Dervish whirl.
+
+Then as a climax the village boy essayed
+To span the four trained camels
+Who at Abdullah's soft-spoke word
+Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short.
+And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,
+The camels crowding close together
+At another soft command.
+Our lad making good his jump,
+The populace would grant our greater skill;
+A goatskin filled with wine,
+And honey mixed with melted butter
+Was offered us within the caravanserai.
+Then we moved out beyond the town
+And pitched our tents of camels' hair,
+Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes
+Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,
+I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe
+Lest my Christian tongue betray me)
+Trudging behind with all the salary--
+Chasing the desert after two new sheep,
+Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.
+
+Now twice each day within the Hippodrome
+I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,
+Strive to make the thousands laugh;
+And when my act is done
+There comes the tread of camels' feet,
+Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,
+Who tumble, jump and build pyramids
+Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert....
+When I saw Slayman last
+He was a boy
+Chasing the sheep with me
+Beneath Morocco's moon.
+Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway?
+In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?
+
+
+PRE-EMINENCE
+
+I once knew a man
+Who'd met Duse,
+(Or so he said)
+And talked with her;
+As she came down a windy street
+He turned a corner
+Headlong into her.
+"I am so sorry," Duse said,
+"I was looking at the stars."
+
+My envy of that man
+Withstood the years
+Until one day I met a Dane
+Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:
+This man, with head bowed to the wind,
+Was walking up a Stockholm way
+When 'round the corner came the seer,
+And he plumped into him.
+And that great mind
+Whose thinking moved the world
+Surveyed my friend
+Through his big eyes
+And slowly spoke:
+"Since when have codfish come to land?"
+
+With all the awe
+One has for those who've known the great,
+These two I've envied
+Until the other day
+When blundering 'round behind the scenes
+I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Broadway Anthology
+
+Author: Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+Release Date: February 21, 2005 [EBook #15120]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 95%;" />
+<h1>The</h1>
+<h1>Broadway Anthology</h1>
+
+<h3>BY</h3>
+
+<h2>EDWARD L. BERNAYS</h2>
+<h2>SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN</h2>
+<h2>WALTER J. KINGSLEY</h2>
+<h2>MURDOCK PEMBERTON</h2>
+<div><br /></div>
+<div><br /></div>
+<p class="center">
+NEW YORK<br />
+DUFFIELD &amp; COMPANY<br />
+1917<br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<p class="center">
+Copyright, 1917<br />
+BY DUFFIELD &amp; COMPANY<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY<br />
+BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK<br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p class="center">Acknowledgment is due to the <i>New York Evening
+Post</i>, <i>Sun</i>, <i>Times</i>, <i>Tribune</i>, the <i>Boston Transcript</i>
+and the <i>Wilmarth Publishing Company</i> for their kind
+permission to reprint some of the matter in this volume.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+<div><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<b><a href="#EDWARD_L_BERNAYS">EDWARD L. BERNAYS</a></b><br />
+<br />
+
+<a href="#ACCIDENTS_WILL_HAPPEN">ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_BARITONE">THE BARITONE</a><br />
+<a href="#PATRIOTISM">PATRIOTISM</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_PILLOW_CASES">THE PILLOW CASES</a><br />
+<a href="#BETTER_INDUSTRIAL_RELATIONS">BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_PRIMA_DONNA">THE PRIMA DONNA</a><br />
+<a href="#PRESS_STORIES">PRESS STORIES</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_DISTRIBUTION_OF_CREDIT">THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT</a><br />
+<a href="#TEARS">TEARS</a><br />
+<a href="#PHOTOGRAPHS">PHOTOGRAPHS</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<b><a href="#SAMUEL_HOFFENSTEIN">SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN</a></b><br />
+<br />
+<a href="#THE_THEATRE_SCRUBWOMAN">THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_STRANGE_CASE_OF_THE_MUSICAL_COMEDY_STAR">THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_STAR_IS_WAITING_TO_SEE_THE_MANAGER">THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_JESTER">THE JESTER</a><br />
+<a href="#IN_A_CAFEgrave">IN A CAFE</a><br />
+<a href="#TO_A_CABARET_SINGER">TO A CABARET SINGER</a><br />
+<a href="#IN_THE_THEATRE">IN THE THEATRE</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<b><a href="#WALTER_J_KINGSLEY">WALTER J. KINGSLEY</a></b><br />
+<br />
+<a href="#LO_THE_PRESS_AGENT">LO, THE PRESS AGENT</a><br />
+<a href="#FIRST_NIGHTS">FIRST NIGHTS</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_DRAMATIST">THE DRAMATIST</a><br />
+<a href="#TYPES">TYPES</a><br />
+<a href="#GEORGE_M_COHAN">GEORGE M. COHAN</a><br />
+<a href="#DAVID_BELASCO">DAVID BELASCO</a><br />
+<a href="#LO_THE_HEADLINER">LO, THE HEADLINER</a><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<b><a href="#MURDOCK_PEMBERTON">MURDOCK PEMBERTON</a></b><br />
+<br />
+<a href="#THE_SCREEN">THE SCREEN</a><br />
+<a href="#BROADWAY_NIGHT">BROADWAY&mdash;NIGHT</a><br />
+<a href="#MATINEE">MATINEE</a><br />
+<a href="#PAVLOWA">PAVLOWA</a><br />
+<a href="#THE_OLD_CHORUS_MAN">THE OLD CHORUS MAN</a><br />
+<a href="#BLUCH_LANDOLFS_TALE">BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE</a><br />
+<a href="#PRE_EMINENCE">PRE-EMINENCE</a><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="EDWARD_L_BERNAYS" id="EDWARD_L_BERNAYS" />EDWARD L. BERNAYS</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="ACCIDENTS_WILL_HAPPEN" id="ACCIDENTS_WILL_HAPPEN" />ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>He was a burly Dutch tenor,<br /></span>
+<span>And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours<br /></span>
+<span>That I might not lose a story,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But his life was commonplace and unimaginative&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Air raids and abdications kept his activities,<br /></span>
+<span>(A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown),<br /></span>
+<span>Out of the papers.<br /></span>
+<span>I watchfully waited,<br /></span>
+<span>Yearning a coup that would place him on the<br /></span>
+<span>Musical map.<br /></span>
+<span>A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre,<br /></span>
+<span>Aeroplaning over the bay,<br /></span>
+<span>Diving with Annette Kellerman.<br /></span>
+<span>Then for three days I quit the city<br /></span>
+<span>To get a simple contralto into the western papers.<br /></span>
+<span>Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled.<br /></span>
+<span>The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire;<br /></span>
+<span>Tremor and emotion choked his throat.<br /></span>
+<span>This was his ominous message:<br /></span>
+<span>A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago;<br /></span>
+<span>He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And not a line in the mornings or evenings!<br /></span>
+<span>What could I do about it?<br /></span>
+<span>Accidents will happen.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_BARITONE" id="THE_BARITONE" /></p>
+<h2>THE BARITONE</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.<br /></span>
+<span>His name had been blazoned over these United States,<br /></span>
+<span>And in Europe it was as well known.<br /></span>
+<span>Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;<br /></span>
+<span>Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.<br /></span>
+<span>In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago<br /></span>
+<span>At a festival where thousands were to foregather<br /></span>
+<span>To do praise to him and his voice.<br /></span>
+<span>Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office<br /></span>
+<span>With a sickly expression all over his rotund face<br /></span>
+<span>And a deathly gasp in his voice.<br /></span>
+<span>One thought he needed a doctor,<br /></span>
+<span>Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.<br /></span>
+<span>He was ushered into the private office<br /></span>
+<span>To find out his trouble.<br /></span>
+<span>This was his lament in short;<br /></span>
+<span>A friend, in the hurry of the moment,<br /></span>
+<span>Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century<br /></span>
+<span>Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.<br /></span>
+<span>So we got him tickets on another road<br /></span>
+<span>Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,<br /></span>
+<span>And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States<br /></span>
+<span>And was as well known in Europe,<br /></span>
+<span>Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="PATRIOTISM" id="PATRIOTISM" /></p>
+<h2>PATRIOTISM</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men<br /></span>
+<span>Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch<br /></span>
+<span>For these were patriotic concerts,<br /></span>
+<span>Supported by the leading patriots of the town,<br /></span>
+<span>(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),<br /></span>
+<span>And all the musicians were getting union wages&mdash;and in the summer at that.<br /></span>
+<span>So they were patriotic too.<br /></span>
+<span>The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,<br /></span>
+<span>For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,<br /></span>
+<span>But when the manager asked him to play a number<br /></span>
+<span>Designated as &quot;Dixie,&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>He disposed of it shortly with the words:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;It is too trivial&mdash;that music.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>(Because he was a Welshman)....<br /></span>
+<span>The audience left after the concert was over<br /></span>
+<span>And complimented itself individually and collectively on &quot;doing its bit&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_PILLOW_CASES" id="THE_PILLOW_CASES" /></p>
+<h2>THE PILLOW CASES</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,<br /></span>
+<span>But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.<br /></span>
+<span>The reporters of the leading dailies<br /></span>
+<span>Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.<br /></span>
+<span>For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,<br /></span>
+<span>And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.<br /></span>
+<span>Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.<br /></span>
+<span>What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets<br /></span>
+<span>Awaiting him impatiently at the station?<br /></span>
+<span>It's a bed he wants&mdash;any bed will do;<br /></span>
+<span>The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.<br /></span>
+<span>But in cooking the news for the public<br /></span>
+<span>One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.<br /></span>
+<span>So they rushed the star with these questions:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Not conscripted yet?...&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;How do you like this town?...&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Will you give any encores tomorrow?...&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;When will the war end?...&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Ruthlessly he plowed through them,<br /></span>
+<span>Like a British tank at Messines.<br /></span>
+<span>The tenor wanted a bed,<br /></span>
+<span>But Lesville wanted a story....<br /></span>
+<span>On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,<br /></span>
+<span>Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,<br /></span>
+<span>Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.<br /></span>
+<span>Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Pillows and pillows and pillows ...&quot; was whispered,<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Tonight he will sleep on them.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Vulture-like swooped down the porters,<br /></span>
+<span>Bearing them off to the taxis.<br /></span>
+<span>Next morning the papers carried the story:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Singer Transports His Own Bedding,&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.<br /></span>
+<span>The baggage held scores for the orchestra.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="BETTER_INDUSTRIAL_RELATIONS" id="BETTER_INDUSTRIAL_RELATIONS" /></p>
+<h2>BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>He was the head of a large real estate firm,<br /></span>
+<span>And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society.<br /></span>
+<span>They were going to have an exhibit in their church building,<br /></span>
+<span>At which it was to be proved<br /></span>
+<span>That giving a gold watch for an invention<br /></span>
+<span>That made millions for the factory owner<br /></span>
+<span>Was worthwhile.<br /></span>
+<span>But they needed a press agent<br /></span>
+<span>To let the world and themselves<br /></span>
+<span>Know that what they were doing was good.<br /></span>
+<span>I was chosen for the work,<br /></span>
+<span>But the head of the large real estate firm<br /></span>
+<span>Thought that half a column a day was too little<br /></span>
+<span>To record the fact that a cash register company<br /></span>
+<span>In which he owned stock<br /></span>
+<span>Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them<br /></span>
+<span>At the same salary for fifteen years.<br /></span>
+<span>So he had me fired.<br /></span>
+<span>And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success.<br /></span>
+<span>And many of the morning and evening newspapers<br /></span>
+<span>Ran editorials about it.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_PRIMA_DONNA" id="THE_PRIMA_DONNA" /></p>
+<h2>THE PRIMA DONNA</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>She had been interviewed at all possible times,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones;<br /></span>
+<span>But it did not matter to her<br /></span>
+<span>As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly.<br /></span>
+<span>So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day<br /></span>
+<span>To take pictures of her in her drawing room.<br /></span>
+<span>He was an ungentle photographer<br /></span>
+<span>Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women<br /></span>
+<span>Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete<br /></span>
+<span>Without limbs being crossed or suchwise.<br /></span>
+<span>But she did not mind even that,<br /></span>
+<span>If the pictures were published the next day.<br /></span>
+<span>He took a great number of her in her salon,<br /></span>
+<span>And departed happy at the day's bagging.<br /></span>
+<span>A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available<br /></span>
+<span>And no photographs were printed the next day<br /></span>
+<span>Of the prima donna.<br /></span>
+<span>And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Je vous ne parle plus&quot; and looked at me harshly.<br /></span>
+<span>Was I to blame for the international situation?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="PRESS_STORIES" id="PRESS_STORIES" /></p>
+<h2>PRESS STORIES</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Though bandsmen's notes from the street below resound,<br /></span>
+<span>And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday,<br /></span>
+<span>I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter,<br /></span>
+<span>By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor.<br /></span>
+<span>The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle.<br /></span>
+<span>But the local manager in Iowa wants the story.<br /></span>
+<span>He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March<br /></span>
+<span>When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners.<br /></span>
+<span>He wants the concert to be such a success,<br /></span>
+<span>That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground<br /></span>
+<span>Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned.<br /></span>
+<span>So he has wired in for this tale about the singer,<br /></span>
+<span>A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem.<br /></span>
+<span>And though the call is to the street below,<br /></span>
+<span>Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday,<br /></span>
+<span>I must finish the story about the tenor's wife and baby<br /></span>
+<span>To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_DISTRIBUTION_OF_CREDIT" id="THE_DISTRIBUTION_OF_CREDIT" /></p>
+<h2>THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway.<br /></span>
+<span>Where to put the credit? On the astute manager<br /></span>
+<span>Who saw in it<br /></span>
+<span>A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies;<br /></span>
+<span>Or the League of Public Spirited Women<br /></span>
+<span>Banded together to uplift the Drama&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public.<br /></span>
+<span>It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre<br /></span>
+<span>Miserably,<br /></span>
+<span>Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies.<br /></span>
+<span>But this come-back<br /></span>
+<span>At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds<br /></span>
+<span>That would save it&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Was the universal verdict.<br /></span>
+<span>During the first week there was a tremendous fight<br /></span>
+<span>Between the two factions for the<br /></span>
+<span>Distribution of credit, and some critics said<br /></span>
+<span>The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible<br /></span>
+<span>For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it,<br /></span>
+<span>And others said it was the astute manager.<br /></span>
+<span>But no audience came to the play after the second week.<br /></span>
+<span>And it went to the storehouse.<br /></span>
+<span>No one fought any longer for<br /></span>
+<span>The distribution of credit.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="TEARS" id="TEARS" /></p>
+<h2>TEARS</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon,<br /></span>
+<span>A hurry call from the Ritz,<br /></span>
+<span>Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour,<br /></span>
+<span>With twenty-four sheets and large heralds,<br /></span>
+<span>And a page or two in all the dailies....<br /></span>
+<span>She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz,<br /></span>
+<span>Discussing with her husband,<br /></span>
+<span>Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina<br /></span>
+<span>Her new pet charity;<br /></span>
+<span>And she had called me in at this very moment,<br /></span>
+<span>Because she had struck a snag.<br /></span>
+<span>This was her charity:<br /></span>
+<span>She related with tears in her eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>What was she to do about it?<br /></span>
+<span>She received no response from the American public.<br /></span>
+<span>The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres<br /></span>
+<span>They were out of work&mdash;destitute&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The theatres closed&mdash;and all the actors at the front.<br /></span>
+<span>But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands?<br /></span>
+<span>That was her query.<br /></span>
+<span>And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke<br /></span>
+<span>While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>I sat and discussed the question.<br /></span>
+<span>And tears came to my eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>But my tears were wept for another reason.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="PHOTOGRAPHS" id="PHOTOGRAPHS" /></p>
+<h2>PHOTOGRAPHS</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna.<br /></span>
+<span>They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine.<br /></span>
+<span>Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron;<br /></span>
+<span>He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair;<br /></span>
+<span>He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them.<br /></span>
+<span>I felt happy that I changed photographers.<br /></span>
+<span>I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate<br /></span>
+<span>Would bring glory and money to many.<br /></span>
+<span>I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises.<br /></span>
+<span>The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself;<br /></span>
+<span>But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed.<br /></span>
+<span>There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice;<br /></span>
+<span>It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies.<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;How dare you use those terrible photographs?<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;What do you mean by insulting my beauty?&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="SAMUEL_HOFFENSTEIN" id="SAMUEL_HOFFENSTEIN" />SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_THEATRE_SCRUBWOMAN" id="THE_THEATRE_SCRUBWOMAN" />THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN
+DREAMS A DREAM</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>When morning mingles with the gloom<br /></span>
+<span>On empty stage and twilit aisle,<br /></span>
+<span>She comes with rag and pan and broom<br /></span>
+<span>To work&mdash;and dream awhile.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears,<br /></span>
+<span>The mimic loves of yesternight,<br /></span>
+<span>On empty stages of the years<br /></span>
+<span>Awake in the dim light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She cannot sweep the phantoms out&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>How sweet the sobbing violin!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>She cannot put the ghosts to rout&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>How pale the heroine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>'Tis only dust that fills her eyes&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But he shall have his lovely bride<br /></span>
+<span>And she her paradise!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And she&mdash;the broom falls from her hands,<br /></span>
+<span>And is it dust that fills her eyes?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Shall go with him to golden lands<br /></span>
+<span>And find her paradise!&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The morning wrestles with the gloom<br /></span>
+<span>On silent stage and chilly aisle,<br /></span>
+<span>She takes her rag and pan and broom<br /></span>
+<span>To work&mdash;and dream awhile!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_STRANGE_CASE_OF_THE_MUSICAL_COMEDY_STAR" id="THE_STRANGE_CASE_OF_THE_MUSICAL_COMEDY_STAR" /></p>
+<h2>THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL
+COMEDY STAR</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>The lady cannot sing a note,<br /></span>
+<span>There is a languor in her throat<br /></span>
+<span>Beyond all healing,<br /></span>
+<span>She does not act at all, it seems,<br /></span>
+<span>Except in early morning dreams&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>She lacks the feeling.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her feet are pretty, but methinks,<br /></span>
+<span>The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx<br /></span>
+<span>Could trip as lightly&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And yet she is a regular,<br /></span>
+<span>Serene and well established star<br /></span>
+<span>Who twinkles nightly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And Solomon for all his stir,<br /></span>
+<span>Had not a single jewel on her,<br /></span>
+<span>Nor did his capers<br /></span>
+<span>Procure him even half the space<br /></span>
+<span>For publication of his face<br /></span>
+<span>In ancient papers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her gowns, her furs, her limousines<br /></span>
+<span>Would catch the eye of stately queens<br /></span>
+<span>In any city&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>She cannot sing, or dance or act,<br /></span>
+<span>But then I have remarked the fact&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Her feet are pretty.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_STAR_IS_WAITING_TO_SEE_THE_MANAGER" id="THE_STAR_IS_WAITING_TO_SEE_THE_MANAGER" /></p>
+<h2>THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE
+MANAGER</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>A moment since, the office boy,<br /></span>
+<span>Invisible as Night itself,<br /></span>
+<span>Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf<br /></span>
+<span>And tasted peace, without alloy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Secure from all the day's alarms,<br /></span>
+<span>Of boss and bell the very jinx,<br /></span>
+<span>He gazed immobile as the Sphinx<br /></span>
+<span>On pompous front and painted charms.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now out of interstellar space,<br /></span>
+<span>Beyond the sunlight and the storm,<br /></span>
+<span>Appears that lightning-laden form,<br /></span>
+<span>That toothful smile, that cryptic face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>He was so hid from mortal eyes,<br /></span>
+<span>Perhaps he fell from paradise,<br /></span>
+<span>Perhaps they chased him out of hell.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But now his heels show everywhere,<br /></span>
+<span>A dozen doors are opened wide,<br /></span>
+<span>He stands before, behind, beside,<br /></span>
+<span>He fills the ether and the air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Far quicker than a wink or beck,<br /></span>
+<span>Far sleeker than a juvenile,<br /></span>
+<span>He barely tops the giant smile<br /></span>
+<span>That wreathes his forehead and his neck.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross!<br /></span>
+<span>Who wrought the shining miracle?<br /></span>
+<span>What magic cast the dazzling spell?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The star is here to see the boss!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_JESTER" id="THE_JESTER" /></p><h2>THE JESTER</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>All the fool's gold of the world,<br /></span>
+<span>All your dusty pageantries,<br /></span>
+<span>All your reeking praise of Self,<br /></span>
+<span>All your wise men's sophistries,<br /></span>
+<span>All that springs of golden birth,<br /></span>
+<span>Is not half the jester's worth!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Who's the jester? He is one,<br /></span>
+<span>Who behind the scenes hath been,<br /></span>
+<span>Caught Life with his make-up off,<br /></span>
+<span>Found him but a harlequin<br /></span>
+<span>Cast to play a tragic part&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>And the two laughed, heart to heart!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="IN_A_CAFEgrave" id="IN_A_CAFEgrave" /></p><h2>IN A CAF&Egrave;</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,<br /></span>
+<span>Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth;<br /></span>
+<span>And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,<br /></span>
+<span>But a ghost in her laughter murmured, &quot;I lie&mdash;I lie!&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,<br /></span>
+<span>And I said: &quot;Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,<br /></span>
+<span>But a ghost in her laughter murmured, &quot;I lie&mdash;I lie!&quot;<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="TO_A_CABARET_SINGER" id="TO_A_CABARET_SINGER" /></p><h2>TO A CABARET SINGER</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Painted little singer of a painted song,<br /></span>
+<span>Painted little butterfly of a painted day,<br /></span>
+<span>The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,<br /></span>
+<span>The cold of your caresses,<br /></span>
+<span>I'll tell you what they say&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,<br /></span>
+<span>The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,<br /></span>
+<span>The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay.&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,<br /></span>
+<span>Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,<br /></span>
+<span>'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)<br /></span>
+<span>'Tis not your sham sad poses<br /></span>
+<span>That tell your hollow day&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The glass is at <i>my</i> lips, but the wine is far away,<br /></span>
+<span>The music's in <i>my</i> throat, but my soul no song discloses,<br /></span>
+<span>The laughter's on <i>my</i> tongue, but my heart is clay.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="IN_THE_THEATRE" id="IN_THE_THEATRE" /></p><h2>IN THE THEATRE</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Weep not, fair lady, for the false,<br /></span>
+<span>The fickle love's rememberance,<br /></span>
+<span>What though another claim the waltz&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The curtain soon will close the dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,<br /></span>
+<span>Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;<br /></span>
+<span>The longest scene as Time is fleet&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The curtain soon will close the kiss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,<br /></span>
+<span>Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,<br /></span>
+<span>No ruin is too mean for Time&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>The curtain soon will close the play.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="WALTER_J_KINGSLEY" id="WALTER_J_KINGSLEY" />WALTER J. KINGSLEY</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="LO_THE_PRESS_AGENT" id="LO_THE_PRESS_AGENT" />LO, THE PRESS AGENT</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>By many names men call me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Press agent, publicity promoter, faker;<br /></span>
+<span>Ofttimes the short and simple liar.<br /></span>
+<span>Charles A. Dana told me<br /></span>
+<span>I was a buccaneer<br /></span>
+<span>On the high seas of journalism.<br /></span>
+<span>Many a newspaper business manager<br /></span>
+<span>Has charged me<br /></span>
+<span>With selling his space<br /></span>
+<span>Over his head.<br /></span>
+<span>Every one loves me<br /></span>
+<span>When I get his name into print&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>For this is an age of publicity<br /></span>
+<span>And he who bloweth not his own horn<br /></span>
+<span>The same shall not be blown.<br /></span>
+<span>I have sired, nursed and reared<br /></span>
+<span>Many reputations.<br /></span>
+<span>Few men or women have I found<br /></span>
+<span>Scornful of praise or blame<br /></span>
+<span>In the press.<br /></span>
+<span>The folk of the stage<br /></span>
+<span>Live on publicity,<br /></span>
+<span>Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it,<br /></span>
+<span>Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it,<br /></span>
+<span>Ofttimes do that for it<br /></span>
+<span>Which must make the God Notoriety<br /></span>
+<span>Grin at the weakness of mortals.<br /></span>
+<span>I hold a terrible power<br /></span>
+<span>And sometimes my own moderation<br /></span>
+<span>Amazes me,<br /></span>
+<span>For I can abase as well as elevate,<br /></span>
+<span>Tear down as well as build up.<br /></span>
+<span>I know all the ways of fair speaking<br /></span>
+<span>And can lead my favorites<br /></span>
+<span>To fame and golden rewards.<br /></span>
+<span>There are a thousand channels<br /></span>
+<span>Through which press agency can exploit<br /></span>
+<span>Its star or its movement<br /></span>
+<span>Never obvious but like the submarine<br /></span>
+<span>Submersible beneath the sea<br /></span>
+<span>Of publicity.<br /></span>
+<span>But I know, too, of the ways<br /></span>
+<span>That undo in Manhattan.<br /></span>
+<span>There are bacilli of rumor<br /></span>
+<span>That slip through the finest of filters<br /></span>
+<span>And defy the remedial serums<br /></span>
+<span>Of angry denial.<br /></span>
+<span>Pin a laugh to your tale<br /></span>
+<span>When stalking your enemy<br /></span>
+<span>And not your exile nor your death<br /></span>
+<span>Will stay the guffaws of merriment<br /></span>
+<span>As the story flies<br /></span>
+<span>Through the Wicked Forties<br /></span>
+<span>And on to the &quot;Road.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Laughter gives the rumor strong wings.<br /></span>
+<span>Truly the press agent,<br /></span>
+<span>Who knows his psychology,<br /></span>
+<span>Likewise his New York<br /></span>
+<span>In all of its ramifications,<br /></span>
+<span>And has a nimble wit,<br /></span>
+<span>Can play fast and loose<br /></span>
+<span>With the lives of many.<br /></span>
+<span>Nevertheless he has no great reward,<br /></span>
+<span>And most in the theatre<br /></span>
+<span>Draw fatter returns than he.<br /></span>
+<span>Yet is he called upon to make the show,<br /></span>
+<span>To save the show,<br /></span>
+<span>But never is he given credit<br /></span>
+<span>Comparable to that which falls<br /></span>
+<span>Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer<br /></span>
+<span>Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit.<br /></span>
+<span>Yet is the press agent happy;<br /></span>
+<span>He loves his work;<br /></span>
+<span>It has excitement and intrigue;<br /></span>
+<span>And to further the cause of beautiful women,<br /></span>
+<span>To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre,<br /></span>
+<span>And lead them in progress triumphal<br /></span>
+<span>Till their names outface the jealous night,<br /></span>
+<span>On Broadway, in incandescents,<br /></span>
+<span>Is in itself a privilege.<br /></span>
+<span>That compensates<br /></span>
+<span>For the wisdom of the cub reporter,<br /></span>
+<span>The amusement of the seasoned editor,<br /></span>
+<span>Shredding the cherished story<br /></span>
+<span>And uprooting the flourishing &quot;plant&quot;;<br /></span>
+<span>Makes one forgive<br /></span>
+<span>The ingratitude of artists arrived.<br /></span>
+<span>They who do not love me<br /></span>
+<span>I hope to have fear me;<br /></span>
+<span>There is only one hell,<br /></span>
+<span>And that is to be disregarded.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="FIRST_NIGHTS" id="FIRST_NIGHTS" /></p><h2>FIRST NIGHTS</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>August heat cannot weaken nor flivvers stale<br /></span>
+<span>Our first-night expectance when the new season opens.<br /></span>
+<span>Come on, boys and girls, the gang's all here;<br /></span>
+<span>The Death Watch is ready in orchestra chairs<br /></span>
+<span>Still shrouded in summer's cool slip pajamas,<br /></span>
+<span>And the undertakers of stage reputations<br /></span>
+<span>Are gathered to chatter about author and players,<br /></span>
+<span>And give them and their work disrespectful interment<br /></span>
+<span>By gleefully agreeing in that sage Broadway saying:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Oh, what an awful oil can that piece turned out to be!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>It's hard when the Chanters of Death-House Blues<br /></span>
+<span>Have to turn to each other and reluctantly murmur:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;I'm afraid it's a hit&mdash;the poor fish is lucky.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>First-nighters are the theatre's forty-niners,<br /></span>
+<span>Making the early rush to new dramatic gold fields,<br /></span>
+<span>And usually finding them barren.<br /></span>
+<span>Often must it madden the playwright to offer his ideals<br /></span>
+<span>To an audience whose personnel would for the most part<br /></span>
+<span>Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness;<br /></span>
+<span>To show sweetness and beauty and color<br /></span>
+<span>To those whose knowledge of tints is confined<br /></span>
+<span>To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers;<br /></span>
+<span>To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind,<br /></span>
+<span>When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment.<br /></span>
+<span>How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal,<br /></span>
+<span>To whom the final appeal must be made<br /></span>
+<span>Frequents our first nights on Broadway?<br /></span>
+<span>Costumers, friends of the author, and critics,<br /></span>
+<span>Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned,<br /></span>
+<span>Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation,<br /></span>
+<span>Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players,<br /></span>
+<span>Hearty laughers or ready weepers &quot;planted.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Most of them there prepare for a funeral;<br /></span>
+<span>Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances,<br /></span>
+<span>And he or she who nods the most times<br /></span>
+<span>Is thereby the greatest first-nighter.<br /></span>
+<span>Some managers open to hand-picked audiences,<br /></span>
+<span>Others strive to escape the regulars;<br /></span>
+<span>But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces<br /></span>
+<span>That really mean so little in the life of the play.<br /></span>
+<span>Listen to the comments during intermission:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;It doesn't get over!&quot; &quot;It's a flop!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;What atmosphere!&quot; &quot;An absolute steal!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Such originality!&quot; &quot;Not a bit life-like!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;That author has a wonderful memory!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;They grabbed that number in London!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;She's one of his tigers!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;From a Lucile model, my dear, but home-made!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;I can't hand him anything on this one!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Some heavy-sugar papa backed the production!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Isn't my boy wonderful!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Yes, but my girl is running away with the piece!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;If you like this, you're not well!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;What could be sweeter!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;What large feet she has!&quot; &quot;His Adam's apple annoys me!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;She must get her clothes on Avenue A!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;They say she was born there!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;What an awful sunburn!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Best thing in years!&quot; &quot;The storehouse for this one!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Did you catch her going up in her lines?&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Yes, and he's fluffing all over the place!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Splendidly produced, don't you think?&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;I think the stage direction is rotten!&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>So I suggest the old Roman fashion of presenting,<br /></span>
+<span>The artists, like gladiators crying:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;We, who are about to die, salute you!&quot;<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_DRAMATIST" id="THE_DRAMATIST" /></p><h2>THE DRAMATIST</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I've put one over at last!<br /></span>
+<span>My play with the surprise finish is a bear.<br /></span>
+<span>Al Woods wants to read all of my scripts;<br /></span>
+<span>Georgie Cohan speaks to me as an equal<br /></span>
+<span>And the office boy swings the gate without being asked.<br /></span>
+<span>I don't care if the manager's name is as large as the play's<br /></span>
+<span>Or if the critics are featured all over the ash cans.<br /></span>
+<span>I'm going to get mine and I'm going to live.<br /></span>
+<span>A Rolls-Royce for me and trips &quot;up the road,&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Long Beach and pretty girls, big eats at the Ritz<br /></span>
+<span>And the ice pitcher for the fellows who snubbed me.<br /></span>
+<span>How the other reporters laughed<br /></span>
+<span>When I showed my first script and started to peddle!<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Stick to the steady job,&quot; they advised.<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Play writing is too big a gamble;<br /></span>
+<span>It will never keep your nose in the feed bag.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>I wrote a trunkful of junk; did a play succeed,<br /></span>
+<span>I immediately copied the fashion;<br /></span>
+<span>Like a pilfering tailor I stole the new models.<br /></span>
+<span>Kind David Belasco, with his face in the gloom,<br /></span>
+<span>And mine brightly lighted, said ministerially:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Rather crude yet, my boy, but the way to write a play<br /></span>
+<span>Is to write plays from sunrise to sunset<br /></span>
+<span>And rewrite them long after midnight.<br /></span>
+<span>Try, try, try, my boy, and God bless you.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Broke and disgusted, I became a play reader<br /></span>
+<span>And the &quot;yessir man&quot; to a manager.<br /></span>
+<span>I was a play doctor, too.<br /></span>
+<span>A few of my patients lived<br /></span>
+<span>And I learned about drama from them.<br /></span>
+<span>How we gutted the scripts!<br /></span>
+<span>Grabbing a wonderful line, a peach of a scene,<br /></span>
+<span>A gem of a finish<br /></span>
+<span>Out of the rubbish that struggling poor devils<br /></span>
+<span>Borrowed money to typewrite and mail to us.<br /></span>
+<span>It's like opening oysters looking for pearls,<br /></span>
+<span>But pearls are to be found and out of the shell heaps<br /></span>
+<span>Come jewels that, polished and set by a clever artificer,<br /></span>
+<span>Are a season's theatrical wonder.<br /></span>
+<span>Finally came my own big idea.<br /></span>
+<span>I wrote and rewrote and cast and recast,<br /></span>
+<span>Convinced the manager, got a production.<br /></span>
+<span>Here am I young and successful,<br /></span>
+<span>And Walter and Thomas and Selwyn have nothing on me.<br /></span>
+<span>Press agents are hired to praise me.<br /></span>
+<span>Watch for my next big sensation,<br /></span>
+<span>But meanwhile I hope that that play-writing plumber,<br /></span>
+<span>Who had an idea and nothing else,<br /></span>
+<span>Never sees this one.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="TYPES" id="TYPES" /></p><h2>TYPES</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>They've got me down for a hick, bo,<br /></span>
+<span>Sam Harris says I'm the best boob in the biz,<br /></span>
+<span>And that no manager will cast me for anything else.<br /></span>
+<span>Curses on my hit in &quot;'Way Down East&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>That handcuffs me forever to yokels,<br /></span>
+<span>And me a better character actor than Corse Payton!<br /></span>
+<span>That's how it is they're stuck on types,<br /></span>
+<span>And the wise guy who plays anything<br /></span>
+<span>Isn't given a look-in.<br /></span>
+<span>Listen to me, young feller, and don't ever<br /></span>
+<span>Let 'em tab you for keeps as a type.<br /></span>
+<span>It's curtains for a career as sure as you're born.<br /></span>
+<span>Why, there's actors sentenced to comedy dog parts,<br /></span>
+<span>To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs.<br /></span>
+<span>There ain't no release for them.<br /></span>
+<span>The producers and managers can see only one angle,<br /></span>
+<span>And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern.<br /></span>
+<span>It's outrageous that's what it is, that make-up<br /></span>
+<span>And character acting should be thrown in the discard.<br /></span>
+<span>You can sit in an agent's office for months<br /></span>
+<span>Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin'.<br /></span>
+<span>This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art<br /></span>
+<span>And a stock training ain't what it used to be.<br /></span>
+<span>Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel<br /></span>
+<span>Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I'll kick or I'll bite<br /></span>
+<span>The type-choosing manager.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="GEORGE_M_COHAN" id="GEORGE_M_COHAN" /></p><h2>GEORGE M. COHAN</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>Blessed be Providence<br /></span>
+<span>That gave us our Cohan;<br /></span>
+<span>Irreverent,<br /></span>
+<span>Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing<br /></span>
+<span>George M.<br /></span>
+<span>Nothing in life<br /></span>
+<span>Better becomes him<br /></span>
+<span>Than his earliest choice<br /></span>
+<span>Of Jerry and Helen<br /></span>
+<span>For father and mother;<br /></span>
+<span>Bred in the wings and the dressing room,<br /></span>
+<span>The theatre alley his playground,<br /></span>
+<span>Hotels his home and his schoolhouse,<br /></span>
+<span>Blessed with a wonderful sister,<br /></span>
+<span>And in love with a violin.<br /></span>
+<span>From baby days used to the footlights,<br /></span>
+<span>With infrequent teachers of book lore<br /></span>
+<span>In the cities of lengthy engagements<br /></span>
+<span>Showing him pages of learning<br /></span>
+<span>That he turned from to life's open volume,<br /></span>
+<span>Acquiring indelible lessons,<br /></span>
+<span>Loyalty, candor, clear seeing,<br /></span>
+<span>Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own,<br /></span>
+<span>Passion for all things American.<br /></span>
+<span>From Jerry, his father,<br /></span>
+<span>Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance,<br /></span>
+<span>And devotion to things of the theatre;<br /></span>
+<span>From Helen, his mother,<br /></span>
+<span>Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit,<br /></span>
+<span>Fineness of soul.<br /></span>
+<span>Early he turned from his fiddle<br /></span>
+<span>To write popular songs<br /></span>
+<span>And tunes so whistly and catchy<br /></span>
+<span>That the music of a child<br /></span>
+<span>Enraptured the nation.<br /></span>
+<span>Then followed comedy sketches,<br /></span>
+<span>Gay little pieces that made public<br /></span>
+<span>And player-folk chatter of Cohan.<br /></span>
+<span>Later, essaying the musical comedy,<br /></span>
+<span>He wrote &quot;Running for Office,&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>To be followed by that impudent<br /></span>
+<span>Classic of fresh young America,<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Little Johnnie Jones.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>One followed another in rapid succession;<br /></span>
+<span>His name grew a cherished possession,<br /></span>
+<span>And ever his dancing delighted.<br /></span>
+<span>His manner of singing and speaking<br /></span>
+<span>Provoked to endless imitation.<br /></span>
+<span>His personality became better known<br /></span>
+<span>Then the President's.<br /></span>
+<span>Always he soared in ambition<br /></span>
+<span>And, becoming a lord of the theatre,<br /></span>
+<span>He ventured on serious drama,<br /></span>
+<span>And out of his wisdom and watching<br /></span>
+<span>Wrote masterful plays,<br /></span>
+<span>Envisaging the types of our natives.<br /></span>
+<span>Truly a genius,<br /></span>
+<span>Genius in friendship, genius in stagecraft,<br /></span>
+<span>Genius in life!<br /></span>
+<span>Even in choosing a partner<br /></span>
+<span>He fattened his average,<br /></span>
+<span>Batting four hundred<br /></span>
+<span>By taking a kindred irreverent soul,<br /></span>
+<span>Graduated out of the whirlpool<br /></span>
+<span>That wrecks all but the strongest,<br /></span>
+<span>Born on the eastern edge<br /></span>
+<span>Of Manhattan,<br /></span>
+<span>Sam H. Harris, man of business,<br /></span>
+<span>Who to the skill of the trader<br /></span>
+<span>Adds the joy in life<br /></span>
+<span>And the sense of humor,<br /></span>
+<span>Coupled with pleasure in giving<br /></span>
+<span>And helping<br /></span>
+<span>That Cohan demands of his pals.<br /></span>
+<span>Together they plan wonderful projects,<br /></span>
+<span>And the artist soul<br /></span>
+<span>And the soul of commerce<br /></span>
+<span>Are an unbeatable union.<br /></span>
+<span>Best of all about Cohan<br /></span>
+<span>Is his congenital manliness.<br /></span>
+<span>He sees Americans<br /></span>
+<span>As our soil and our air and our water<br /></span>
+<span>Have made them;<br /></span>
+<span>Types as distinct as the Indian.<br /></span>
+<span>He follows no school,<br /></span>
+<span>Knows little of movements artistic.<br /></span>
+<span>A lonely creator,<br /></span>
+<span>His friends are not writing men,<br /></span>
+<span>Reformers, uplifters or zealots.<br /></span>
+<span>He writes the life he has lived<br /></span>
+<span>So fully and zestfully,<br /></span>
+<span>And over it all plays like sheet lightning<br /></span>
+<span>A beneficent humor.<br /></span>
+<span>Growth is his hall-mark,<br /></span>
+<span>Hard work his chief recreation;<br /></span>
+<span>Not Balzac could toil with labor titanic<br /></span>
+<span>More terribly.<br /></span>
+<span>George M. Cohan,<br /></span>
+<span>Excelling in everything&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Beloved son, brother, father, partner, friend,<br /></span>
+<span>Our best-beloved man of the theatre.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="DAVID_BELASCO" id="DAVID_BELASCO" /></p><h2>DAVID BELASCO</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>King David of old slew the Philistines;<br /></span>
+<span>Our David has made them admirers and patrons;<br /></span>
+<span>He has numbered the people<br /></span>
+<span>Night after night in his theatres.<br /></span>
+<span>Will he ever, I wonder, send forth for the Shunammite?<br /></span>
+<span>Many there be who would answer his calling,<br /></span>
+<span>For he has shown ambitious fair women<br /></span>
+<span>To acting's high places.<br /></span>
+<span>As Rodin in marble saw wondrous creations<br /></span>
+<span>To be freed by the chisel,<br /></span>
+<span>So Belasco in immature genius and beauty<br /></span>
+<span>Sees the resplendent star to be kindled<br /></span>
+<span>At his own steady beacon.<br /></span>
+<span>Too varied a mind for our comprehension,<br /></span>
+<span>Too big and too broad and too subtle<br /></span>
+<span>To be understood of the bourgeois American<br /></span>
+<span>Whom he has led decade after decade<br /></span>
+<span>By a nose ring artistic.<br /></span>
+<span>Capable of everything, he has worked<br /></span>
+<span>With the ease of a master, giving the public<br /></span>
+<span>Marvelous detail, unfailing sensation and poses pictorial;<br /></span>
+<span>Preferring the certain success to arduous striving<br /></span>
+<span>For the more excellent things of the future.<br /></span>
+<span>Like David his forebear, a king but no prophet,<br /></span>
+<span>Amazingly wise in his own generation.<br /></span>
+<span>A wizard in art of the everyday,<br /></span>
+<span>Lord of the spotlight and dimmer,<br /></span>
+<span>But nursing the unconquerable hope, the inviolable shade<br /></span>
+<span>Of what in his dreams Oriental<br /></span>
+<span>He fain would do, did not necessity drive him.<br /></span>
+<span>His the fascination of a great personality.<br /></span>
+<span>Who knoweth not him of the clerical collar?<br /></span>
+<span>Hair of the sage and eyes of the poet,<br /></span>
+<span>Features perfectly drawn and as mobile<br /></span>
+<span>As those of the inspired actor;<br /></span>
+<span>With speech so much blander than honey<br /></span>
+<span>And insight that maketh his staged stumbling in bargains<br /></span>
+<span>Cover the shrewdness of a masterly trader.<br /></span>
+<span>None better than he knoweth the crowd and its likings,<br /></span>
+<span>As to using the patter of drama artistic,<br /></span>
+<span>That's where he lives.<br /></span>
+<span>With incense and color and scenery<br /></span>
+<span>He refilleth the bottle of art so that the contents<br /></span>
+<span>Go twice better than in the original package.<br /></span>
+<span>Thanks be to David for joy in the playhouse.<br /></span>
+<span>Wizard, magician, necromancer of switchboards,<br /></span>
+<span>He hath woven spells from the actual,<br /></span>
+<span>Keeping ideals and ideas well in the background.<br /></span>
+<span>Like Gautier, these things delight him:<br /></span>
+<span>Gold, marble and purple; brilliance, solidity, color.<br /></span>
+<span>He can stage Tiffany's jewels but not Maeterlinck's bees.<br /></span>
+<span>Deep in his soul there are tempests<br /></span>
+<span>Revealed in the storms of his dramas&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Sandstorm and snowstorm, rainstorm and hurricane.<br /></span>
+<span>That nature revealed in its subtle reactions<br /></span>
+<span>Would show in its deeps the soul of an Angelo<br /></span>
+<span>Subdued to success and dyed by democracy.<br /></span>
+<span>Opportunism hath made him<br /></span>
+<span>An artistic materialist.<br /></span>
+<span>One work remains for David Belasco,<br /></span>
+<span>And that is to stage with patient precision<br /></span>
+<span>A cross section in drama of his own self-surprising,<br /></span>
+<span>Making the world sit up and take notice<br /></span>
+<span>With what &quot;masterly detail,&quot; &quot;unfailing atmosphere,&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Startling reality&quot; he can star David Belasco.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="LO_THE_HEADLINER" id="LO_THE_HEADLINER" /></p><h2>LO, THE HEADLINER</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I was not raised for vaudeville.<br /></span>
+<span>Father and mother were veteran legits;<br /></span>
+<span>They loved the Bard and the &quot;Lady of Lyons.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland;<br /></span>
+<span>I was carried on as a child<br /></span>
+<span>When the farm girl revealed her shame<br /></span>
+<span>On the night of the snowstorm.<br /></span>
+<span>The old folks died with grease paint on their faces.<br /></span>
+<span>I did a little of everything<br /></span>
+<span>Even to staking out a pitch in a street fair.<br /></span>
+<span>Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhoo<br /></span>
+<span>And to make openings.<br /></span>
+<span>I stole the business of Billy Sunday<br /></span>
+<span>And imitated William Jennings Bryan.<br /></span>
+<span>I became famous in the small towns.<br /></span>
+<span>One day Poli heard me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>He's the head of the New England variety circuit.&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Cul,&quot; he said, &quot;you are a born monologist.<br /></span>
+<span>Where you got that stuff I don't know,<br /></span>
+<span>But you would be a riot in the two-a-day.<br /></span>
+<span>Quit this hanky-panky<br /></span>
+<span>And I'll make you a headliner.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>Well, I fell for his line of talk<br /></span>
+<span>Like the sod busters had fallen for mine.<br /></span>
+<span>Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue;<br /></span>
+<span>Max Marx made me a suit of clothes;<br /></span>
+<span>And Lew Dockstader wised me up<br /></span>
+<span>On how to jockey my laughs.<br /></span>
+<span>I opened in Hartford;<br /></span>
+<span>Believe me, I was some scream.<br /></span>
+<span>I gave them gravy, and hokum,<br /></span>
+<span>And when they ate it up I came through<br /></span>
+<span>With the old jasbo,<br /></span>
+<span>Than which there is nothing so efficacious<br /></span>
+<span>In vaudeville, polite or otherwise.<br /></span>
+<span>The first thing I did I hollered for more dough,<br /></span>
+<span>And Poli says:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;That's what I get for feeding you meat,<br /></span>
+<span>But you are a riot all right, all right,<br /></span>
+<span>So I guess you are on for more kale.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>I kept getting better.<br /></span>
+<span>I got so's I could follow any act at all<br /></span>
+<span>And get my laughs.<br /></span>
+<span>And he who getteth his laughs<br /></span>
+<span>Is greater than he who taketh a city.<br /></span>
+<span>At last the Palace Theatre sent for me<br /></span>
+<span>And I signed up for a week.<br /></span>
+<span>They kept me two.<br /></span>
+<span>I am a headliner;<br /></span>
+<span>I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street<br /></span>
+<span>And Little Old Broadway;<br /></span>
+<span>Throw out my chest,<br /></span>
+<span>Call the agents and vaudeville magnates<br /></span>
+<span>By their first names.<br /></span>
+<span>I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="MURDOCK_PEMBERTON" id="MURDOCK_PEMBERTON" />MURDOCK PEMBERTON</h2>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="THE_SCREEN" id="THE_SCREEN" />THE SCREEN</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>From midnight till the following noon<br /></span>
+<span>I stand in shadow,<br /></span>
+<span>Just a splotch of white,<br /></span>
+<span>Unnoted by the cleaning crew<br /></span>
+<span>Who've spent their hours of toil<br /></span>
+<span>That I might live again.<br /></span>
+<span>Yet they hold no reverence for my charms,<br /></span>
+<span>And if they pause amid their work<br /></span>
+<span>They do not glance at me;<br /></span>
+<span>All their admiration, all their awe,<br /></span>
+<span>Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home<br /></span>
+<span>That's built to house my wonders;<br /></span>
+<span>Or for the gorgeous murals all around,<br /></span>
+<span>Which really, after all,<br /></span>
+<span>Were put in place as most lame substitutes,<br /></span>
+<span>Striving to soothe the patron's ire<br /></span>
+<span>For those few moments when my face is dark.<br /></span>
+<span>Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me,<br /></span>
+<span>And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach<br /></span>
+<span>The tides of people flow to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>All things I am to everyone;<br /></span>
+<span>The newsboys, shopgirls,<br /></span>
+<span>And all starved souls<br /></span>
+<span>Who've clutched at life and missed,<br /></span>
+<span>See in my magic face,<br /></span>
+<span>The lowly rise to fame and palaces,<br /></span>
+<span>See virtue triumph every time<br /></span>
+<span>And rich and wicked justly flayed.<br /></span>
+<span>Old men are tearful<br /></span>
+<span>When I show them what they might have been.<br /></span>
+<span>And others, not so old,<br /></span>
+<span>Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales.<br /></span>
+<span>The lovers see new ways to woo;<br /></span>
+<span>And wives see ways to use old brooms.<br /></span>
+<span>Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd<br /></span>
+<span>Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me<br /></span>
+<span>Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets.<br /></span>
+<span>Then some there are who watch my changing face<br /></span>
+<span>To catch new history's shadow<br /></span>
+<span>As it falls from day to day.<br /></span>
+<span>And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet,<br /></span>
+<span>In time to music of the warring tribes,<br /></span>
+<span>The shadow men across my face<br /></span>
+<span>Seem living with the hope or dread<br /></span>
+<span>Of those who watch them off to wars.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>In sordid substance I am but a sheet,<br /></span>
+<span>A fabric of some fireproof stuff.<br /></span>
+<span>And yet, in every port where ships can ride,<br /></span>
+<span>In every nook where there is breath of life,<br /></span>
+<span>Intrepid men face death<br /></span>
+<span>To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world<br /></span>
+<span>Lest I lose some charming facet of my face.<br /></span>
+<span>And all the masters of all time<br /></span>
+<span>Have thrummed their harps<br /></span>
+<span>And bowed their violins<br /></span>
+<span>To fashion melodies that might be played<br /></span>
+<span>The while I tell my tales.<br /></span>
+<span>O you who hold the mirror up to nature,<br /></span>
+<span>Behold my cosmic scope:<br /></span>
+<span>I am the mirror of the whirling globe.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="BROADWAY_NIGHT" id="BROADWAY_NIGHT" /></p><h2>BROADWAY&mdash;NIGHT</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I saw the rich in motor cars<br /></span>
+<span>Held in long lines<br /></span>
+<span>Until cross-streams of cars flowed by;<br /></span>
+<span>I saw young boys in service clothes<br /></span>
+<span>And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors;<br /></span>
+<span>I saw some thousand drifting men<br /></span>
+<span>Some thousand aimless women;<br /></span>
+<span>I saw some thousand wearied eyes<br /></span>
+<span>That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights<br /></span>
+<span>Which blazoned everywhere;<br /></span>
+<span>I saw a man stop in his walk<br /></span>
+<span>To pet an old black cat.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="MATINEE" id="MATINEE" /></p><h2>MATINEE</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>They pass the window<br /></span>
+<span>Where I sit at work,<br /></span>
+<span>In silks and furs<br /></span>
+<span>And boots and hats<br /></span>
+<span>All of the latest mode.<br /></span>
+<span>They chatter as they pass<br /></span>
+<span>Of various things<br /></span>
+<span>But hardly hear the words they speak<br /></span>
+<span>So tense are they<br /></span>
+<span>Upon a life they know begins for them<br /></span>
+<span>At 2:15.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Within the theatre<br /></span>
+<span>The air is pungent with the mixed perfumes,<br /></span>
+<span>More scents than ever blew from Araby.<br /></span>
+<span>And there's a rapid hum<br /></span>
+<span>Of some six hundred secrets;<br /></span>
+<span>Then sudden hush<br /></span>
+<span>As tongues and violins cease.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>The play is on.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>There is a hastening of the beat<br /></span>
+<span>Of some six hundred hearts.<br /></span>
+<span>There're twitches soon about the lips,<br /></span>
+<span>And later copious tears<br /></span>
+<span>From waiting eyes;<br /></span>
+<span>But all this time<br /></span>
+<span>There are six hundred separate souls<br /></span>
+<span>The playwright's puppet has to woo,<br /></span>
+<span>To win, to humor, or to cajole,<br /></span>
+<span>Until, with master stroke<br /></span>
+<span>Of Devil knowledge,<br /></span>
+<span>Or old Adam's,<br /></span>
+<span>He crushes in his manful arms<br /></span>
+<span>The languid heroine<br /></span>
+<span>And forcing back her golden head<br /></span>
+<span>Implants the kiss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And then against his heaving breast<br /></span>
+<span>The hero feels the beatings of six hundred hearts<br /></span>
+<span>In mighty unison,<br /></span>
+<span>And on his lips there is the pulse<br /></span>
+<span>Of that one lingering kiss<br /></span>
+<span>Returned six-hundred fold.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="PAVLOWA" id="PAVLOWA" /></p><h2>PAVLOWA</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I was working on <i>The Daily News</i><br /></span>
+<span>When I first heard of her,<br /></span>
+<span>And from that time<br /></span>
+<span>Until the day she came to town<br /></span>
+<span>I longed to see her dance.<br /></span>
+<span>The night the dancer and her ballet came<br /></span>
+<span>The Desk assigned me to my nightly run<br /></span>
+<span>Of hotels, clubs, and undertakers' shops;<br /></span>
+<span>I was so green<br /></span>
+<span>I had not learned<br /></span>
+<span>The art of using telephones<br /></span>
+<span>To make it seem<br /></span>
+<span>That I was hot upon the trail of news<br /></span>
+<span>While loafing otherwhere.<br /></span>
+<span>How could I do my trick<br /></span>
+<span>And also see her dance?<br /></span>
+<span>So I left bread and butter flat,<br /></span>
+<span>To feast my eyes, which had been prairie-fed,<br /></span>
+<span>Upon this vision from another world.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>I'd seen the wind<br /></span>
+<span>Go rippling over seas of wheat;<br /></span>
+<span>I'd stood at night within a wood<br /></span>
+<span>And felt the pulse of growing things<br /></span>
+<span>Upon the April air;<br /></span>
+<span>I'd seen the hawks arise and soar;<br /></span>
+<span>And dragon-flies<br /></span>
+<span>At sunrise over misty pools&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>But all these things had never known a name<br /></span>
+<span>Until I saw Pavlowa dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Next day the editor explained<br /></span>
+<span>That although art was&mdash;art,<br /></span>
+<span>He'd found a boy to take my place.<br /></span>
+<span>The days that followed<br /></span>
+<span>When I walked the town<br /></span>
+<span>Seeking for some sort of work,<br /></span>
+<span>The haze of Indian Summer<br /></span>
+<span>Blended with the dream<br /></span>
+<span>Of that one night's magic.<br /></span>
+<span>And though I needed work to keep alive<br /></span>
+<span>My thoughts would go no further<br /></span>
+<span>Than Pavlowa as the maid Giselle ...<br /></span>
+<span>Then cold days came,<br /></span>
+<span>And found the dream a fabric much too thin;<br /></span>
+<span>And finally a job,<br /></span>
+<span>And I was back to stomach fare.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>But through the years<br /></span>
+<span>I've nursed the sacrifice,<br /></span>
+<span>Counting it a tribute<br /></span>
+<span>Unlike all the things<br /></span>
+<span>That Kings and Queens have laid before her feet;<br /></span>
+<span>And wishing somehow she might know<br /></span>
+<span>About the price<br /></span>
+<span>The cub reporter paid<br /></span>
+<span>To see Pavlowa dance.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>And then by trick of time,<br /></span>
+<span>We came together at the Hippodrome;<br /></span>
+<span>And every day I saw her dance.<br /></span>
+<span>One morning in the darkened wings<br /></span>
+<span>I saw a big-eyed woman in a filmy thing<br /></span>
+<span>Go through the exercises<br /></span>
+<span>Athletes use when training for a team;<br /></span>
+<span>And from a stage-hand learned<br /></span>
+<span>That this Pavlowa, incomparable one,<br /></span>
+<span>Out of every day spent hours<br /></span>
+<span>On elementary practice steps.<br /></span>
+<span>And now somehow<br /></span>
+<span>I can not find the heart<br /></span>
+<span>To tell Pavlowa of the price I paid<br /></span>
+<span>To see her dance.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="THE_OLD_CHORUS_MAN" id="THE_OLD_CHORUS_MAN" /></p><h2>THE OLD CHORUS MAN</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>He's played with Booth,<br /></span>
+<span>He's shared applause with Jefferson,<br /></span>
+<span>He's run the gamut of the soul<br /></span>
+<span>Imparting substance to the shadow men<br /></span>
+<span>Masters have fashioned with their quills<br /></span>
+<span>And set upon the boards.<br /></span>
+<span>Great men-of-iron were his favored r&ocirc;les,<br /></span>
+<span>(Once he essayed Napoleon).<br /></span>
+<span>And now, unknowing, he plays his greatest tragedy:<br /></span>
+<span>Dressed in a garb to look like service clothes,<br /></span>
+<span>Cheeks lit by fire&mdash;of make-up box,<br /></span>
+<span>He marches with a squad of sallow youths<br /></span>
+<span>And bare-kneed girls,<br /></span>
+<span>Keeping step to tattoo of the drums<br /></span>
+<span>Beat by some shapely maids in tights,<br /></span>
+<span>While close by in the silent streets<br /></span>
+<span>There march long files of purposed men<br /></span>
+<span>Who go to death, perhaps,<br /></span>
+<span>For the same cause he travesties<br /></span>
+<span>Within the playhouse walls.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="BLUCH_LANDOLFS_TALE" id="BLUCH_LANDOLFS_TALE" /></p><h2>BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>When I was old enough to walk<br /></span>
+<span>I rode a circus horse;<br /></span>
+<span>My first teeth held me swinging from a high trapeze.<br /></span>
+<span>About the age young men go out to colleges<br /></span>
+<span>I trudged the sanded vasts of Northern Africa,<br /></span>
+<span>Top-mounter in a nomad Arab tumbling troupe.<br /></span>
+<span>I was Christian, that is white and Infidel,<br /></span>
+<span>So old Abdullah took me in his tent<br /></span>
+<span>And stripping off my white man's clothes<br /></span>
+<span>Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls,<br /></span>
+<span>Laughing the while about the potency of juice<br /></span>
+<span>That would prove armour 'gainst some zealot's scimitar.<br /></span>
+<span>Four camels made our caravan<br /></span>
+<span>And these we also used for &quot;props.&quot;<br /></span>
+<span>When we played a Morocco town<br /></span>
+<span>The chieftain met us at the hamlet's edge<br /></span>
+<span>Asked of Abdullah what his mission there,<br /></span>
+<span>Then let us enter<br /></span>
+<span>He leading our caravan to the chieftain's hut,<br /></span>
+<span>Where we sat upon the sand<br /></span>
+<span>The thirty odd of us<br /></span>
+<span>Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs.<br /></span>
+<span>The hookah solemnly was passed around<br /></span>
+<span>And then the hamlet chief would speak;<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Stranger, why have you forsaken home<br /></span>
+<span>And drawn believers after you,<br /></span>
+<span>You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth,<br /></span>
+<span>No jewels nor any merchantry?&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i7">And then Abdullah:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;True, Allah's precious son,<br /></span>
+<span>We trade in naught men feed their bellies on<br /></span>
+<span>But we have wares to thrill brave men,<br /></span>
+<span>To make your youth see what use bodies are,<br /></span>
+<span>To make your women blush<br /></span>
+<span>That they have no such men.&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>&quot;What are these magic wares?&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>&quot;Why we have here an Arab youth<br /></span>
+<span>Who seems possessed of wings,<br /></span>
+<span>Jumping three camels in a row.&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>&quot;So! In this very village there's a lad<br /></span>
+<span>Who jumps four camels<br /></span>
+<span>With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy.&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Scoff followed boast and back again<br /></span>
+<span>Until the chief arose,<br /></span>
+<span>Saying to the lesser chiefs<br /></span>
+<span>That they should call the local tribe<br /></span>
+<span>To meet beside the caravanserai<br /></span>
+<span>Before another sun went down<br /></span>
+<span>To see if these vain wandering men<br /></span>
+<span>Could do one half the deeds they boasted.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>So we met at sundown,<br /></span>
+<span>Our brown men stripped<br /></span>
+<span>Except for linen clouts.<br /></span>
+<span>We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids,<br /></span>
+<span>And whirled as only Dervish whirl.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Then as a climax the village boy essayed<br /></span>
+<span>To span the four trained camels<br /></span>
+<span>Who at Abdullah's soft-spoke word<br /></span>
+<span>Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short.<br /></span>
+<span>And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,<br /></span>
+<span>The camels crowding close together<br /></span>
+<span>At another soft command.<br /></span>
+<span>Our lad making good his jump,<br /></span>
+<span>The populace would grant our greater skill;<br /></span>
+<span>A goatskin filled with wine,<br /></span>
+<span>And honey mixed with melted butter<br /></span>
+<span>Was offered us within the caravanserai.<br /></span>
+<span>Then we moved out beyond the town<br /></span>
+<span>And pitched our tents of camels' hair,<br /></span>
+<span>Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes<br /></span>
+<span>Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,<br /></span>
+<span>I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe<br /></span>
+<span>Lest my Christian tongue betray me)<br /></span>
+<span>Trudging behind with all the salary&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span>Chasing the desert after two new sheep,<br /></span>
+<span>Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>Now twice each day within the Hippodrome<br /></span>
+<span>I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,<br /></span>
+<span>Strive to make the thousands laugh;<br /></span>
+<span>And when my act is done<br /></span>
+<span>There comes the tread of camels' feet,<br /></span>
+<span>Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,<br /></span>
+<span>Who tumble, jump and build pyramids<br /></span>
+<span>Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert....<br /></span>
+<span>When I saw Slayman last<br /></span>
+<span>He was a boy<br /></span>
+<span>Chasing the sheep with me<br /></span>
+<span>Beneath Morocco's moon.<br /></span>
+<span>Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway?<br /></span>
+<span>In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<div><br /></div>
+<p><a name="PRE_EMINENCE" id="PRE_EMINENCE" /></p><h2>PRE-EMINENCE</h2>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I once knew a man<br /></span>
+<span>Who'd met Duse,<br /></span>
+<span>(Or so he said)<br /></span>
+<span>And talked with her;<br /></span>
+<span>As she came down a windy street<br /></span>
+<span>He turned a corner<br /></span>
+<span>Headlong into her.<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;I am so sorry,&quot; Duse said,<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;I was looking at the stars.&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>My envy of that man<br /></span>
+<span>Withstood the years<br /></span>
+<span>Until one day I met a Dane<br /></span>
+<span>Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:<br /></span>
+<span>This man, with head bowed to the wind,<br /></span>
+<span>Was walking up a Stockholm way<br /></span>
+<span>When 'round the corner came the seer,<br /></span>
+<span>And he plumped into him.<br /></span>
+<span>And that great mind<br /></span>
+<span>Whose thinking moved the world<br /></span>
+<span>Surveyed my friend<br /></span>
+<span>Through his big eyes<br /></span>
+<span>And slowly spoke:<br /></span>
+<span>&quot;Since when have codfish come to land?&quot;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span>With all the awe<br /></span>
+<span>One has for those who've known the great,<br /></span>
+<span>These two I've envied<br /></span>
+<span>Until the other day<br /></span>
+<span>When blundering 'round behind the scenes<br /></span>
+<span>I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<hr style="width: 95%;" />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
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+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/15120.txt b/15120.txt
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--- /dev/null
+++ b/15120.txt
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Broadway Anthology
+
+Author: Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+Release Date: February 21, 2005 [EBook #15120]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The
+Broadway Anthology
+
+
+BY
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+
+NEW YORK
+DUFFIELD & COMPANY
+1917
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, 1917
+BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY
+
+
+VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
+BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+Acknowledgment is due to the _New York Evening
+Post_, _Sun_, _Times_, _Tribune_, the _Boston Transcript_
+and the _Wilmarth Publishing Company_ for their kind
+permission to reprint some of the matter in this volume.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+
+ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
+THE BARITONE
+PATRIOTISM
+THE PILLOW CASES
+BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS
+THE PRIMA DONNA
+PRESS STORIES
+THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT
+TEARS
+PHOTOGRAPHS
+
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+
+THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM
+THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR
+THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER
+THE JESTER
+IN A CAFE
+TO A CABARET SINGER
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+
+LO, THE PRESS AGENT
+FIRST NIGHTS
+THE DRAMATIST
+TYPES
+GEORGE M. COHAN
+DAVID BELASCO
+LO, THE HEADLINER
+
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+THE SCREEN
+BROADWAY--NIGHT
+MATINEE
+PAVLOWA
+THE OLD CHORUS MAN
+BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE
+PRE-EMINENCE
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD L. BERNAYS
+
+
+
+
+ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
+
+He was a burly Dutch tenor,
+And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours
+That I might not lose a story,--
+But his life was commonplace and unimaginative--
+Air raids and abdications kept his activities,
+(A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown),
+Out of the papers.
+I watchfully waited,
+Yearning a coup that would place him on the
+Musical map.
+A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre,
+Aeroplaning over the bay,
+Diving with Annette Kellerman.
+Then for three days I quit the city
+To get a simple contralto into the western papers.
+Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled.
+The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire;
+Tremor and emotion choked his throat.
+This was his ominous message:
+A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago;
+He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice--
+And not a line in the mornings or evenings!
+What could I do about it?
+Accidents will happen.
+
+
+THE BARITONE
+
+He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.
+His name had been blazoned over these United States,
+And in Europe it was as well known.
+Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;
+Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.
+In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago
+At a festival where thousands were to foregather
+To do praise to him and his voice.
+Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office
+With a sickly expression all over his rotund face
+And a deathly gasp in his voice.
+One thought he needed a doctor,
+Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.
+He was ushered into the private office
+To find out his trouble.
+This was his lament in short;
+A friend, in the hurry of the moment,
+Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century
+Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,--
+And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.
+So we got him tickets on another road
+Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,
+And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States
+And was as well known in Europe,
+Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.
+
+
+PATRIOTISM
+
+The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men
+Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch
+For these were patriotic concerts,
+Supported by the leading patriots of the town,
+(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),
+And all the musicians were getting union wages--and in the summer at that.
+So they were patriotic too.
+The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,
+For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,
+But when the manager asked him to play a number
+Designated as "Dixie,"
+He disposed of it shortly with the words:
+"It is too trivial--that music."
+And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,--
+(Because he was a Welshman)....
+The audience left after the concert was over
+And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit"
+By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.
+
+
+THE PILLOW CASES
+
+The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,
+But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.
+The reporters of the leading dailies
+Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.
+For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,
+And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.
+Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.
+What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets
+Awaiting him impatiently at the station?
+It's a bed he wants--any bed will do;
+The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.
+But in cooking the news for the public
+One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.
+So they rushed the star with these questions:
+"Not conscripted yet?..."
+"How do you like this town?..."
+"Will you give any encores tomorrow?..."
+"When will the war end?..."
+Ruthlessly he plowed through them,
+Like a British tank at Messines.
+The tenor wanted a bed,
+But Lesville wanted a story....
+On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,
+Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,
+Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.
+Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,
+"Pillows and pillows and pillow...." was whispered,
+"Tonight he will sleep on them."
+Vulture-like swooped down the porters,
+Bearing them off to the taxis.
+Next morning the papers carried the story:
+"Singer Transports His Own Bedding,"
+But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.
+The baggage held scores for the orchestra.
+
+
+BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS
+
+He was the head of a large real estate firm,
+And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society.
+They were going to have an exhibit in their church building,
+At which it was to be proved
+That giving a gold watch for an invention
+That made millions for the factory owner
+Was worthwhile.
+But they needed a press agent
+To let the world and themselves
+Know that what they were doing was good.
+I was chosen for the work,
+But the head of the large real estate firm
+Thought that half a column a day was too little
+To record the fact that a cash register company
+In which he owned stock
+Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them
+At the same salary for fifteen years.
+So he had me fired.
+And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success.
+And many of the morning and evening newspapers
+Ran editorials about it.
+
+
+THE PRIMA DONNA
+
+She had been interviewed at all possible times,--
+And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones;
+But it did not matter to her
+As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly.
+So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day
+To take pictures of her in her drawing room.
+He was an ungentle photographer
+Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women
+Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete
+Without limbs being crossed or suchwise.
+But she did not mind even that,
+If the pictures were published the next day.
+He took a great number of her in her salon,
+And departed happy at the day's bagging.
+A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available
+And no photographs were printed the next day
+Of the prima donna.
+And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly:
+"Je vous ne parle plus" and looked at me harshly.
+Was I to blame for the international situation?
+
+
+PRESS STORIES
+
+Though bandsmen's notes from the street below resound,
+And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday,
+I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter,
+By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor.
+The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle.
+But the local manager in Iowa wants the story.
+He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March
+When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners.
+He wants the concert to be such a success,
+That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground
+Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned.
+So he has wired in for this tale about the singer,
+A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem.
+And though the call is to the street below,
+Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday,
+I must finish the story about the tenor's wife and baby
+To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned.
+
+
+THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT
+
+The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway.
+Where to put the credit? On the astute manager
+Who saw in it
+A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies;
+Or the League of Public Spirited Women
+Banded together to uplift the Drama--
+That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public.
+It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre
+Miserably,
+Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies.
+But this come-back
+At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds
+That would save it--
+Was the universal verdict.
+During the first week there was a tremendous fight
+Between the two factions for the
+Distribution of credit, and some critics said
+The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible
+For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it,
+And others said it was the astute manager.
+But no audience came to the play after the second week.
+And it went to the storehouse.
+No one fought any longer for
+The distribution of credit.
+
+
+TEARS
+
+Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon,
+A hurry call from the Ritz,
+Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour,
+With twenty-four sheets and large heralds,
+And a page or two in all the dailies....
+She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz,
+Discussing with her husband,
+Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina
+Her new pet charity;
+And she had called me in at this very moment,
+Because she had struck a snag.
+This was her charity:
+She related with tears in her eyes,
+What was she to do about it?
+She received no response from the American public.
+The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres
+They were out of work--destitute--
+The theatres closed--and all the actors at the front.
+But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands?
+That was her query.
+And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke
+While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa--
+I sat and discussed the question.
+And tears came to my eyes,
+But my tears were wept for another reason.
+
+
+PHOTOGRAPHS
+
+I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna.
+They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine.
+Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron;
+He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair;
+He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them.
+I felt happy that I changed photographers.
+I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate
+Would bring glory and money to many.
+I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises.
+The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,--
+It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself;
+But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed.
+There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice;
+It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies.
+"How dare you use those terrible photographs?"
+"What do you mean by insulting my beauty?"
+There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,--
+I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice.
+
+
+
+
+SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN
+
+
+
+
+THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN
+DREAMS A DREAM
+
+When morning mingles with the gloom
+On empty stage and twilit aisle,
+She comes with rag and pan and broom
+To work--and dream awhile.
+
+Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears,
+The mimic loves of yesternight,
+On empty stages of the years
+Awake in the dim light.
+
+She cannot sweep the phantoms out--
+How sweet the sobbing violin!--
+She cannot put the ghosts to rout--
+How pale the heroine!
+
+Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!--
+'Tis only dust that fills her eyes--
+But he shall have his lovely bride
+And she her paradise!
+
+And she--the broom falls from her hands,
+And is it dust that fills her eyes?--
+Shall go with him to golden lands
+And find her paradise!--
+
+The morning wrestles with the gloom
+On silent stage and chilly aisle,
+She takes her rag and pan and broom
+To work--and dream awhile!
+
+
+THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL
+COMEDY STAR
+
+The lady cannot sing a note,
+There is a languor in her throat
+Beyond all healing,
+She does not act at all, it seems,
+Except in early morning dreams--
+She lacks the feeling.
+
+Her feet are pretty, but methinks,
+The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx
+Could trip as lightly--
+And yet she is a regular,
+Serene and well established star
+Who twinkles nightly.
+
+And Solomon for all his stir,
+Had not a single jewel on her,
+Nor did his capers
+Procure him even half the space
+For publication of his face
+In ancient papers.
+
+Her gowns, her furs, her limousines
+Would catch the eye of stately queens
+In any city--
+She cannot sing, or dance or act,
+But then I have remarked the fact--
+Her feet are pretty.
+
+
+THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE
+MANAGER
+
+A moment since, the office boy,
+Invisible as Night itself,
+Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf
+And tasted peace, without alloy.
+
+Secure from all the day's alarms,
+Of boss and bell the very jinx,
+He gazed immobile as the Sphinx
+On pompous front and painted charms.
+
+Now out of interstellar space,
+Beyond the sunlight and the storm,
+Appears that lightning-laden form,
+That toothful smile, that cryptic face.
+
+Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?--
+He was so hid from mortal eyes,
+Perhaps he fell from paradise,
+Perhaps they chased him out of hell.
+
+But now his heels show everywhere,
+A dozen doors are opened wide,
+He stands before, behind, beside,
+He fills the ether and the air.
+
+Far quicker than a wink or beck,
+Far sleeker than a juvenile,
+He barely tops the giant smile
+That wreathes his forehead and his neck.
+
+Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross!
+Who wrought the shining miracle?
+What magic cast the dazzling spell?--
+The star is here to see the boss!
+
+
+THE JESTER
+
+All the fool's gold of the world,
+All your dusty pageantries,
+All your reeking praise of Self,
+All your wise men's sophistries,
+All that springs of golden birth,
+Is not half the jester's worth!
+
+Who's the jester? He is one,
+Who behind the scenes hath been,
+Caught Life with his make-up off,
+Found him but a harlequin
+Cast to play a tragic part--
+And the two laughed, heart to heart!
+
+
+IN A CAFE
+
+Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,
+Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth;
+And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,
+But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!"
+
+She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,
+And I said: "Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?"
+And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,
+But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!"
+
+
+TO A CABARET SINGER
+
+Painted little singer of a painted song,
+Painted little butterfly of a painted day,
+The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,
+The cold of your caresses,
+I'll tell you what they say--
+"The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
+The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,
+The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay."
+
+Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,
+Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,
+'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)
+'Tis not your sham sad poses
+That tell your hollow day--
+The glass is at _my_ lips, but the wine is far away,
+The music's in _my_ throat, but my soul no song discloses,
+The laughter's on _my_ tongue, but my heart is clay.
+
+
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+Weep not, fair lady, for the false,
+The fickle love's rememberance,
+What though another claim the waltz--
+The curtain soon will close the dance.
+
+Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,
+Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;
+The longest scene as Time is fleet--
+The curtain soon will close the kiss.
+
+And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,
+Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,
+No ruin is too mean for Time--
+The curtain soon will close the play.
+
+
+
+
+WALTER J. KINGSLEY
+
+
+
+
+LO, THE PRESS AGENT
+
+By many names men call me--
+Press agent, publicity promoter, faker;
+Ofttimes the short and simple liar.
+Charles A. Dana told me
+I was a buccaneer
+On the high seas of journalism.
+Many a newspaper business manager
+Has charged me
+With selling his space
+Over his head.
+Every one loves me
+When I get his name into print--
+For this is an age of publicity
+And he who bloweth not his own horn
+The same shall not be blown.
+I have sired, nursed and reared
+Many reputations.
+Few men or women have I found
+Scornful of praise or blame
+In the press.
+The folk of the stage
+Live on publicity,
+Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it,
+Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it,
+Ofttimes do that for it
+Which must make the God Notoriety
+Grin at the weakness of mortals.
+I hold a terrible power
+And sometimes my own moderation
+Amazes me,
+For I can abase as well as elevate,
+Tear down as well as build up.
+I know all the ways of fair speaking
+And can lead my favorites
+To fame and golden rewards.
+There are a thousand channels
+Through which press agency can exploit
+Its star or its movement
+Never obvious but like the submarine
+Submersible beneath the sea
+Of publicity.
+But I know, too, of the ways
+That undo in Manhattan.
+There are bacilli of rumor
+That slip through the finest of filters
+And defy the remedial serums
+Of angry denial.
+Pin a laugh to your tale
+When stalking your enemy
+And not your exile nor your death
+Will stay the guffaws of merriment
+As the story flies
+Through the Wicked Forties
+And on to the "Road."
+Laughter gives the rumor strong wings.
+Truly the press agent,
+Who knows his psychology,
+Likewise his New York
+In all of its ramifications,
+And has a nimble wit,
+Can play fast and loose
+With the lives of many.
+Nevertheless he has no great reward,
+And most in the theatre
+Draw fatter returns than he.
+Yet is he called upon to make the show,
+To save the show,
+But never is he given credit
+Comparable to that which falls
+Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer
+Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit.
+Yet is the press agent happy;
+He loves his work;
+It has excitement and intrigue;
+And to further the cause of beautiful women,
+To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre,
+And lead them in progress triumphal
+Till their names outface the jealous night,
+On Broadway, in incandescents,
+Is in itself a privilege.
+That compensates
+For the wisdom of the cub reporter,
+The amusement of the seasoned editor,
+Shredding the cherished story
+And uprooting the flourishing "plant";
+Makes one forgive
+The ingratitude of artists arrived.
+They who do not love me
+I hope to have fear me;
+There is only one hell,
+And that is to be disregarded.
+
+
+FIRST NIGHTS
+
+August heat cannot weaken nor flivvers stale
+Our first-night expectance when the new season opens.
+Come on, boys and girls, the gang's all here;
+The Death Watch is ready in orchestra chairs
+Still shrouded in summer's cool slip pajamas,
+And the undertakers of stage reputations
+Are gathered to chatter about author and players,
+And give them and their work disrespectful interment
+By gleefully agreeing in that sage Broadway saying:
+"Oh, what an awful oil can that piece turned out to be!"
+It's hard when the Chanters of Death-House Blues
+Have to turn to each other and reluctantly murmur:
+"I'm afraid it's a hit--the poor fish is lucky."
+First-nighters are the theatre's forty-niners,
+Making the early rush to new dramatic gold fields,
+And usually finding them barren.
+Often must it madden the playwright to offer his ideals
+To an audience whose personnel would for the most part
+Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness;
+To show sweetness and beauty and color
+To those whose knowledge of tints is confined
+To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers;
+To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind,
+When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment.
+How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal,
+To whom the final appeal must be made
+Frequents our first nights on Broadway?
+Costumers, friends of the author, and critics,
+Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned,
+Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation,
+Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players,
+Hearty laughers or ready weepers "planted."
+Most of them there prepare for a funeral;
+Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances,
+And he or she who nods the most times
+Is thereby the greatest first-nighter.
+Some managers open to hand-picked audiences,
+Others strive to escape the regulars;
+But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces
+That really mean so little in the life of the play.
+Listen to the comments during intermission:
+"It doesn't get over!" "It's a flop!"
+"What atmosphere!" "An absolute steal!"
+"Such originality!" "Not a bit life-like!"
+"That author has a wonderful memory!"
+"He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!"
+"He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!"
+"They grabbed that number in London!"
+"She's one of his tigers!"
+"From a Lucile model, my dear, but home-made!"
+"I can't hand him anything on this one!"
+"Some heavy-sugar papa backed the production!"
+"Isn't my boy wonderful!"
+"Yes, but my girl is running away with the piece!"
+"If you like this, you're not well!"
+"What could be sweeter!"
+"What large feet she has!" "His Adam's apple annoys me!"
+"She must get her clothes on Avenue A!"
+"They say she was born there!"
+"What an awful sunburn!"
+"Best thing in years!" "The storehouse for this one!"
+"Did you catch her going up in her lines?"
+"Yes, and he's fluffing all over the place!"
+"Splendidly produced, don't you think?"
+"I think the stage direction is rotten!"
+So I suggest the old Roman fashion of presenting,
+The artists, like gladiators crying:
+"We, who are about to die, salute you!"
+
+
+THE DRAMATIST
+
+I've put one over at last!
+My play with the surprise finish is a bear.
+Al Woods wants to read all of my scripts;
+Georgie Cohan speaks to me as an equal
+And the office boy swings the gate without being asked.
+I don't care if the manager's name is as large as the play's
+Or if the critics are featured all over the ash cans.
+I'm going to get mine and I'm going to live.
+A Rolls-Royce for me and trips "up the road,"
+Long Beach and pretty girls, big eats at the Ritz
+And the ice pitcher for the fellows who snubbed me.
+How the other reporters laughed
+When I showed my first script and started to peddle!
+"Stick to the steady job," they advised.
+"Play writing is too big a gamble;
+It will never keep your nose in the feed bag."
+I wrote a trunkful of junk; did a play succeed,
+I immediately copied the fashion;
+Like a pilfering tailor I stole the new models.
+Kind David Belasco, with his face in the gloom,
+And mine brightly lighted, said ministerially:
+"Rather crude yet, my boy, but the way to write a play
+Is to write plays from sunrise to sunset
+And rewrite them long after midnight.
+Try, try, try, my boy, and God bless you."
+Broke and disgusted, I became a play reader
+And the "yessir man" to a manager.
+I was a play doctor, too.
+A few of my patients lived
+And I learned about drama from them.
+How we gutted the scripts!
+Grabbing a wonderful line, a peach of a scene,
+A gem of a finish
+Out of the rubbish that struggling poor devils
+Borrowed money to typewrite and mail to us.
+It's like opening oysters looking for pearls,
+But pearls are to be found and out of the shell heaps
+Come jewels that, polished and set by a clever artificer,
+Are a season's theatrical wonder.
+Finally came my own big idea.
+I wrote and rewrote and cast and recast,
+Convinced the manager, got a production.
+Here am I young and successful,
+And Walter and Thomas and Selwyn have nothing on me.
+Press agents are hired to praise me.
+Watch for my next big sensation,
+But meanwhile I hope that that play-writing plumber,
+Who had an idea and nothing else,
+Never sees this one.
+
+
+TYPES
+
+They've got me down for a hick, bo,
+Sam Harris says I'm the best boob in the biz,
+And that no manager will cast me for anything else.
+Curses on my hit in "'Way Down East"
+That handcuffs me forever to yokels,
+And me a better character actor than Corse Payton!
+That's how it is they're stuck on types,
+And the wise guy who plays anything
+Isn't given a look-in.
+Listen to me, young feller, and don't ever
+Let 'em tab you for keeps as a type.
+It's curtains for a career as sure as you're born.
+Why, there's actors sentenced to comedy dog parts,
+To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs.
+There ain't no release for them.
+The producers and managers can see only one angle,
+And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern.
+It's outrageous that's what it is, that make-up
+And character acting should be thrown in the discard.
+You can sit in an agent's office for months
+Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin'.
+This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art
+And a stock training ain't what it used to be.
+Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel
+Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I'll kick or I'll bite
+The type-choosing manager.
+
+
+GEORGE M. COHAN
+
+Blessed be Providence
+That gave us our Cohan;
+Irreverent,
+Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing
+George M.
+Nothing in life
+Better becomes him
+Than his earliest choice
+Of Jerry and Helen
+For father and mother;
+Bred in the wings and the dressing room,
+The theatre alley his playground,
+Hotels his home and his schoolhouse,
+Blessed with a wonderful sister,
+And in love with a violin.
+From baby days used to the footlights,
+With infrequent teachers of book lore
+In the cities of lengthy engagements
+Showing him pages of learning
+That he turned from to life's open volume,
+Acquiring indelible lessons,
+Loyalty, candor, clear seeing,
+Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own,
+Passion for all things American.
+From Jerry, his father,
+Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance,
+And devotion to things of the theatre;
+From Helen, his mother,
+Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit,
+Fineness of soul.
+Early he turned from his fiddle
+To write popular songs
+And tunes so whistly and catchy
+That the music of a child
+Enraptured the nation.
+Then followed comedy sketches,
+Gay little pieces that made public
+And player-folk chatter of Cohan.
+Later, essaying the musical comedy,
+He wrote "Running for Office,"
+To be followed by that impudent
+Classic of fresh young America,
+"Little Johnnie Jones."
+One followed another in rapid succession;
+His name grew a cherished possession,
+And ever his dancing delighted.
+His manner of singing and speaking
+Provoked to endless imitation.
+His personality became better known
+Then the President's.
+Always he soared in ambition
+And, becoming a lord of the theatre,
+He ventured on serious drama,
+And out of his wisdom and watching
+Wrote masterful plays,
+Envisaging the types of our natives.
+Truly a genius,
+Genius in friendship, genius in stagecraft,
+Genius in life!
+Even in choosing a partner
+He fattened his average,
+Batting four hundred
+By taking a kindred irreverent soul,
+Graduated out of the whirlpool
+That wrecks all but the strongest,
+Born on the eastern edge
+Of Manhattan,
+Sam H. Harris, man of business,
+Who to the skill of the trader
+Adds the joy in life
+And the sense of humor,
+Coupled with pleasure in giving
+And helping
+That Cohan demands of his pals.
+Together they plan wonderful projects,
+And the artist soul
+And the soul of commerce
+Are an unbeatable union.
+Best of all about Cohan
+Is his congenital manliness.
+He sees Americans
+As our soil and our air and our water
+Have made them;
+Types as distinct as the Indian.
+He follows no school,
+Knows little of movements artistic.
+A lonely creator,
+His friends are not writing men,
+Reformers, uplifters or zealots.
+He writes the life he has lived
+So fully and zestfully,
+And over it all plays like sheet lightning
+A beneficent humor.
+Growth is his hall-mark,
+Hard work his chief recreation;
+Not Balzac could toil with labor titanic
+More terribly.
+George M. Cohan,
+Excelling in everything--
+Beloved son, brother, father, partner, friend,
+Our best-beloved man of the theatre.
+
+
+DAVID BELASCO
+
+King David of old slew the Philistines;
+Our David has made them admirers and patrons;
+He has numbered the people
+Night after night in his theatres.
+Will he ever, I wonder, send forth for the Shunammite?
+Many there be who would answer his calling,
+For he has shown ambitious fair women
+To acting's high places.
+As Rodin in marble saw wondrous creations
+To be freed by the chisel,
+So Belasco in immature genius and beauty
+Sees the resplendent star to be kindled
+At his own steady beacon.
+Too varied a mind for our comprehension,
+Too big and too broad and too subtle
+To be understood of the bourgeois American
+Whom he has led decade after decade
+By a nose ring artistic.
+Capable of everything, he has worked
+With the ease of a master, giving the public
+Marvelous detail, unfailing sensation and poses pictorial;
+Preferring the certain success to arduous striving
+For the more excellent things of the future.
+Like David his forebear, a king but no prophet,
+Amazingly wise in his own generation.
+A wizard in art of the everyday,
+Lord of the spotlight and dimmer,
+But nursing the unconquerable hope, the inviolable shade
+Of what in his dreams Oriental
+He fain would do, did not necessity drive him.
+His the fascination of a great personality.
+Who knoweth not him of the clerical collar?
+Hair of the sage and eyes of the poet,
+Features perfectly drawn and as mobile
+As those of the inspired actor;
+With speech so much blander than honey
+And insight that maketh his staged stumbling in bargains
+Cover the shrewdness of a masterly trader.
+None better than he knoweth the crowd and its likings,
+As to using the patter of drama artistic,
+That's where he lives.
+With incense and color and scenery
+He refilleth the bottle of art so that the contents
+Go twice better than in the original package.
+Thanks be to David for joy in the playhouse.
+Wizard, magician, necromancer of switchboards,
+He hath woven spells from the actual,
+Keeping ideals and ideas well in the background.
+Like Gautier, these things delight him:
+Gold, marble and purple; brilliance, solidity, color.
+He can stage Tiffany's jewels but not Maeterlinck's bees.
+Deep in his soul there are tempests
+Revealed in the storms of his dramas--
+Sandstorm and snowstorm, rainstorm and hurricane.
+That nature revealed in its subtle reactions
+Would show in its deeps the soul of an Angelo
+Subdued to success and dyed by democracy.
+Opportunism hath made him
+An artistic materialist.
+One work remains for David Belasco,
+And that is to stage with patient precision
+A cross section in drama of his own self-surprising,
+Making the world sit up and take notice
+With what "masterly detail," "unfailing atmosphere,"
+"Startling reality" he can star David Belasco.
+
+
+LO, THE HEADLINER
+
+I was not raised for vaudeville.
+Father and mother were veteran legits;
+They loved the Bard and the "Lady of Lyons."
+I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland;
+I was carried on as a child
+When the farm girl revealed her shame
+On the night of the snowstorm.
+The old folks died with grease paint on their faces.
+I did a little of everything
+Even to staking out a pitch in a street fair.
+Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhoo
+And to make openings.
+I stole the business of Billy Sunday
+And imitated William Jennings Bryan.
+I became famous in the small towns.
+One day Poli heard me--
+He's the head of the New England variety circuit.--
+"Cul," he said, "you are a born monologist.
+Where you got that stuff I don't know,
+But you would be a riot in the two-a-day.
+Quit this hanky-panky
+And I'll make you a headliner."
+Well, I fell for his line of talk
+Like the sod busters had fallen for mine.
+Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue;
+Max Marx made me a suit of clothes;
+And Lew Dockstader wised me up
+On how to jockey my laughs.
+I opened in Hartford;
+Believe me, I was some scream.
+I gave them gravy, and hokum,
+And when they ate it up I came through
+With the old jasbo,
+Than which there is nothing so efficacious
+In vaudeville, polite or otherwise.
+The first thing I did I hollered for more dough,
+And Poli says:
+"That's what I get for feeding you meat,
+But you are a riot all right, all right,
+So I guess you are on for more kale."
+I kept getting better.
+I got so's I could follow any act at all
+And get my laughs.
+And he who getteth his laughs
+Is greater than he who taketh a city.
+At last the Palace Theatre sent for me
+And I signed up for a week.
+They kept me two.
+I am a headliner;
+I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street
+And Little Old Broadway;
+Throw out my chest,
+Call the agents and vaudeville magnates
+By their first names.
+I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport.
+
+
+
+
+MURDOCK PEMBERTON
+
+
+
+
+THE SCREEN
+
+From midnight till the following noon
+I stand in shadow,
+Just a splotch of white,
+Unnoted by the cleaning crew
+Who've spent their hours of toil
+That I might live again.
+Yet they hold no reverence for my charms,
+And if they pause amid their work
+They do not glance at me;
+All their admiration, all their awe,
+Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home
+That's built to house my wonders;
+Or for the gorgeous murals all around,
+Which really, after all,
+Were put in place as most lame substitutes,
+Striving to soothe the patron's ire
+For those few moments when my face is dark.
+Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me,
+And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach
+The tides of people flow to me.
+
+All things I am to everyone;
+The newsboys, shopgirls,
+And all starved souls
+Who've clutched at life and missed,
+See in my magic face,
+The lowly rise to fame and palaces,
+See virtue triumph every time
+And rich and wicked justly flayed.
+Old men are tearful
+When I show them what they might have been.
+And others, not so old,
+Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales.
+The lovers see new ways to woo;
+And wives see ways to use old brooms.
+Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd
+Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me
+Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets.
+Then some there are who watch my changing face
+To catch new history's shadow
+As it falls from day to day.
+And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet,
+In time to music of the warring tribes,
+The shadow men across my face
+Seem living with the hope or dread
+Of those who watch them off to wars.
+
+In sordid substance I am but a sheet,
+A fabric of some fireproof stuff.
+And yet, in every port where ships can ride,
+In every nook where there is breath of life,
+Intrepid men face death
+To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world
+Lest I lose some charming facet of my face.
+And all the masters of all time
+Have thrummed their harps
+And bowed their violins
+To fashion melodies that might be played
+The while I tell my tales.
+O you who hold the mirror up to nature,
+Behold my cosmic scope:
+I am the mirror of the whirling globe.
+
+
+BROADWAY--NIGHT
+
+I saw the rich in motor cars
+Held in long lines
+Until cross-streams of cars flowed by;
+I saw young boys in service clothes
+And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors;
+I saw some thousand drifting men
+Some thousand aimless women;
+I saw some thousand wearied eyes
+That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights
+Which blazoned everywhere;
+I saw a man stop in his walk
+To pet an old black cat.
+
+
+MATINEE
+
+They pass the window
+Where I sit at work,
+In silks and furs
+And boots and hats
+All of the latest mode.
+They chatter as they pass
+Of various things
+But hardly hear the words they speak
+So tense are they
+Upon a life they know begins for them
+At 2:15.
+
+Within the theatre
+The air is pungent with the mixed perfumes,
+More scents than ever blew from Araby.
+And there's a rapid hum
+Of some six hundred secrets;
+Then sudden hush
+As tongues and violins cease.
+
+The play is on.
+
+There is a hastening of the beat
+Of some six hundred hearts.
+There're twitches soon about the lips,
+And later copious tears
+From waiting eyes;
+But all this time
+There are six hundred separate souls
+The playwright's puppet has to woo,
+To win, to humor, or to cajole,
+Until, with master stroke
+Of Devil knowledge,
+Or old Adam's,
+He crushes in his manful arms
+The languid heroine
+And forcing back her golden head
+Implants the kiss.
+
+And then against his heaving breast
+The hero feels the beatings of six hundred hearts
+In mighty unison,
+And on his lips there is the pulse
+Of that one lingering kiss
+Returned six-hundred fold.
+
+
+PAVLOWA
+
+I was working on _The Daily News_
+When I first heard of her,
+And from that time
+Until the day she came to town
+I longed to see her dance.
+The night the dancer and her ballet came
+The Desk assigned me to my nightly run
+Of hotels, clubs, and undertakers' shops;
+I was so green
+I had not learned
+The art of using telephones
+To make it seem
+That I was hot upon the trail of news
+While loafing otherwhere.
+How could I do my trick
+And also see her dance?
+So I left bread and butter flat,
+To feast my eyes, which had been prairie-fed,
+Upon this vision from another world.
+
+I'd seen the wind
+Go rippling over seas of wheat;
+I'd stood at night within a wood
+And felt the pulse of growing things
+Upon the April air;
+I'd seen the hawks arise and soar;
+And dragon-flies
+At sunrise over misty pools--
+But all these things had never known a name
+Until I saw Pavlowa dance.
+
+Next day the editor explained
+That although art was--art,
+He'd found a boy to take my place.
+The days that followed
+When I walked the town
+Seeking for some sort of work,
+The haze of Indian Summer
+Blended with the dream
+Of that one night's magic.
+And though I needed work to keep alive
+My thoughts would go no further
+Than Pavlowa as the maid Giselle ...
+Then cold days came,
+And found the dream a fabric much too thin;
+And finally a job,
+And I was back to stomach fare.
+
+But through the years
+I've nursed the sacrifice,
+Counting it a tribute
+Unlike all the things
+That Kings and Queens have laid before her feet;
+And wishing somehow she might know
+About the price
+The cub reporter paid
+To see Pavlowa dance.
+
+And then by trick of time,
+We came together at the Hippodrome;
+And every day I saw her dance.
+One morning in the darkened wings
+I saw a big-eyed woman in a filmy thing
+Go through the exercises
+Athletes use when training for a team;
+And from a stage-hand learned
+That this Pavlowa, incomparable one,
+Out of every day spent hours
+On elementary practice steps.
+And now somehow
+I can not find the heart
+To tell Pavlowa of the price I paid
+To see her dance.
+
+
+THE OLD CHORUS MAN
+
+He's played with Booth,
+He's shared applause with Jefferson,
+He's run the gamut of the soul
+Imparting substance to the shadow men
+Masters have fashioned with their quills
+And set upon the boards.
+Great men-of-iron were his favored roles,
+(Once he essayed Napoleon).
+And now, unknowing, he plays his greatest tragedy:
+Dressed in a garb to look like service clothes,
+Cheeks lit by fire--of make-up box,
+He marches with a squad of sallow youths
+And bare-kneed girls,
+Keeping step to tattoo of the drums
+Beat by some shapely maids in tights,
+While close by in the silent streets
+There march long files of purposed men
+Who go to death, perhaps,
+For the same cause he travesties
+Within the playhouse walls.
+
+
+BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE
+
+When I was old enough to walk
+I rode a circus horse;
+My first teeth held me swinging from a high trapeze.
+About the age young men go out to colleges
+I trudged the sanded vasts of Northern Africa,
+Top-mounter in a nomad Arab tumbling troupe.
+I was Christian, that is white and Infidel,
+So old Abdullah took me in his tent
+And stripping off my white man's clothes
+Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls,
+Laughing the while about the potency of juice
+That would prove armour 'gainst some zealot's scimitar.
+Four camels made our caravan
+And these we also used for "props."
+When we played a Morocco town
+The chieftain met us at the hamlet's edge
+Asked of Abdullah what his mission there,
+Then let us enter
+He leading our caravan to the chieftain's hut,
+Where we sat upon the sand
+The thirty odd of us
+Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs.
+The hookah solemnly was passed around
+And then the hamlet chief would speak;
+"Stranger, why have you forsaken home
+And drawn believers after you,
+You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth,
+No jewels nor any merchantry?"
+
+           And then Abdullah:
+"True, Allah's precious son,
+We trade in naught men feed their bellies on
+But we have wares to thrill brave men,
+To make your youth see what use bodies are,
+To make your women blush
+That they have no such men."
+
+"What are these magic wares?"
+
+"Why we have here an Arab youth
+Who seems possessed of wings,
+Jumping three camels in a row."
+
+"So! In this very village there's a lad
+Who jumps four camels
+With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy."
+
+Scoff followed boast and back again
+Until the chief arose,
+Saying to the lesser chiefs
+That they should call the local tribe
+To meet beside the caravanserai
+Before another sun went down
+To see if these vain wandering men
+Could do one half the deeds they boasted.
+
+So we met at sundown,
+Our brown men stripped
+Except for linen clouts.
+We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids,
+And whirled as only Dervish whirl.
+
+Then as a climax the village boy essayed
+To span the four trained camels
+Who at Abdullah's soft-spoke word
+Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short.
+And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,
+The camels crowding close together
+At another soft command.
+Our lad making good his jump,
+The populace would grant our greater skill;
+A goatskin filled with wine,
+And honey mixed with melted butter
+Was offered us within the caravanserai.
+Then we moved out beyond the town
+And pitched our tents of camels' hair,
+Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes
+Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,
+I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe
+Lest my Christian tongue betray me)
+Trudging behind with all the salary--
+Chasing the desert after two new sheep,
+Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.
+
+Now twice each day within the Hippodrome
+I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,
+Strive to make the thousands laugh;
+And when my act is done
+There comes the tread of camels' feet,
+Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,
+Who tumble, jump and build pyramids
+Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert....
+When I saw Slayman last
+He was a boy
+Chasing the sheep with me
+Beneath Morocco's moon.
+Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway?
+In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?
+
+
+PRE-EMINENCE
+
+I once knew a man
+Who'd met Duse,
+(Or so he said)
+And talked with her;
+As she came down a windy street
+He turned a corner
+Headlong into her.
+"I am so sorry," Duse said,
+"I was looking at the stars."
+
+My envy of that man
+Withstood the years
+Until one day I met a Dane
+Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:
+This man, with head bowed to the wind,
+Was walking up a Stockholm way
+When 'round the corner came the seer,
+And he plumped into him.
+And that great mind
+Whose thinking moved the world
+Surveyed my friend
+Through his big eyes
+And slowly spoke:
+"Since when have codfish come to land?"
+
+With all the awe
+One has for those who've known the great,
+These two I've envied
+Until the other day
+When blundering 'round behind the scenes
+I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology
+by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY ***
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