In brief, there is no puerility
that is not at home in this sphere of misbegotten effort. Listen--a
priest, a princess, and a young man in woman's clothes are on the scene:
\ The princess rose to her feet and
approached the priest.
\ "Father," she said swiftly, "this
is not the Lady Joan, my brother's
wife, but a youth marvelously like
her, who hath offered himself in
her place that she might escape. . . .
He is the Count von Loen, a lord
of Kernsburg. And I love him. We
want you to marry us now, dear
Father--now, without a moment's
delay; for if you do not they will
kill him, and I shall have to marry
Prince Wasp!"
This is from "Joan of the Sword Hand," and if ever I read a more silly
performance I have forgotten it.
POOR YORICK
THERE is extant in the city of New York an odd piece of bric-a-brac
which I am sometimes tempted to wish was in my own possession. On a
bracket in Edwin Booth's bedroom at The Players--the apartment remains
as he left it that solemn June day ten years ago--stands a sadly
dilapidated skull which the elder Booth, and afterward his son Edwin,
used to soliloquize over in the graveyard at Elsinore in the fifth act
of "Hamlet.
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