6 . TITE RUNDAT OKEGOXIAX, TORTLAXD, JANUARY 7, 1912.
REED
R
C
R
VWEESL
MAM DM
PT MART KATHEBIXE WOODS.
THAT the American stag of today
la a disgrace to America,
That our "Broadway successes'
are childish, cbap.
Tbac the average American play
wright substitutes false thea-tricaliam
for dramatic quality and commonplace
mush" for realism.
That the condition of our stare to
day Is getting worse instead of bet
ter. These are the main points In Hamlin
Garland's unsparing arraignment of the
drama in America,
Mr. Garland, who Is an author and
a playwright, whose brother Is an
actor, and who has ben himself inti
mately connected with the vtare In
America fur upward f 20 jars, has
attacked our modern drama, as he de
clares, with no object of mere abuse
Ho Is as willing to nupct & remedy
as to point out the trouble, as quick
with cure as with dlanols. Further
more, he avers, his criticism is not of
any one particular manager or group
of managers; not f any one play
wright, any ona phase of dramatic
production. His criticism, he asserts,
are gen oral; t he-re are, of course, ex
ceptions in his general condemnation;
there are some playwrights with
Ideals; there are, now and then, a few
good plays. But on the wholt the
condition of the drama In this coun
try Is, Mr. Garland declares, "frankly
bad so bad as to constitute, a cryinz
National disgrace.
The American dramatist, he adds,
works with no object of producing a
good play. He has no literary or dra
matic standards. He makes n effort
to study life, to show it as it really
Is, with truth of portraiture, truth of
atmosphere, truth of emotional reac
tion. He dos not even strive after
originality. He does not care whether
his play la good or bad. All he Is
working for is "success. All he wants
Is to attract an audience of pie as u re -
sekers. All he really strives) for Is
box office receipts.
A for the manager, Mr. Garland as
serts, he is not only "in tha theatrical
business' to make money he Is In It
to make Immense sums of money. He
Is not satisfied with m -derate rue-
cesjees. with tho 10 per cent profit that
contents the director of any other
business enterprise he must make
51.000.000. He must play to 100.000
people. Ha must have a "year's run
on Broadway" before he goes on lour.
And every Ideal of dramatic produc
tion, every hope of dramatic quality.
every standard of dramatic excellence,
gives way before the all-conquering
ambition to make a fortune.
Hwta It lame oa Miiagrn.
Mr. Garland places the major re
sponsibility for what he terms the de
plorable condition of our drama upon
the managers en masse. The reform
that Is needed to put the drama In
America on a basis that even remotely
approximates our o;her arts or the
drum a In other countries must come,
he says, from the managers first.
But the playwright Is morally, he be
lieves, more culpable than the manager.
For while the man mho produces a play
must be of necessity a business man.
sZ ' A x
A LIMOUSINE
IS WHAT '.OUR
PLAYWRIGHTS
JEOt.
OUR
ARE NOT
GOOD WORK
THEY .ARE
RAW,
Crf EAR
CHILDISH.
the man who write a plajr should be
of necessity an artist. That the busi
ness man succumbs to the temptation
of bigger business is not so remark
able, not so blameworthy. That the
artist succumbs to the same tempta
tion so generally as have the play
wrights of America, is, Mr. Garland
avers, a lamentable thins;.
The actor himself is to ba pitied
far more than blamed for the sad state
of American drama. The actor suf
fers, Sir. Garland says, almost as much
as the public The average actor does
not want to appear In bad plays, in
plays thut are "childish and raw and
cheap; be wants to play in things
that have some character, some In
herent excellence, in things that are
worth his efforts and his name. lie is
really eager for good plays, and, with
raro exceptions, he can't set them. Mr.
Garland is convinced that if there
were good plays in America there
would be plenty cf American actors
rcaily to produce them.
But there are virtually no good plays
in America.
Mr. Garland's arraignment of the
drama in America is aimost simultane
ous with Arnold Bennett's 'criticism
of our stage. The English author re
turned to London with his praise for
most things American, with mention of
our beautiful cities, our high apprecla- i
tion of art. our culture which so com
pletely quashed that old foolish indict
ment of "American vulgarity." And
then, Mr. Bennett added, he found the
rrj
condition of the stage In America
thoroughly disappointing, thoroughly
bad. Good actors and actresses, he ad
mitted, we bad, but plays weak and
puerile, theaters badly arranged, pro
ductions altogether inferior to those of
England and the Continent. And Ham
lin Garland agrees with him.
The condition, Mr. Garland says, is a
disgrace.
The cause is the success fetish.
The remedy can be found only in
the infusion of a dramatic ideal.
"To a certain extent we are all
tarred with the same stick," Mr. Gar
land said, "We all vant to make
money.
"We are not nearly so anxious In
America to produce gdod work aa to
own a limousine.
"This applies in soma degree to all
our arts and all our businesses. But it
applies to the drama far more, and
much mora ruinously, than to anything
else.
"After all we have standards of lit
erary production In America. Our lit
erature Is good. We have standards of
painting, architecture, sculpture. And
our painting and architecture and
sculpture stand high in the ranks of
the modern world's artistic achieve
ment. But we seem to have no stand
ards whatever when It comes to the
stage. Ana our dramatic output Is a
disgrace to our Nation.
"I am not criticising Just to "kick.' I
want my criticism to be constructive.
I want it to help. I think that this de
plorable condition can be remedied. It
can be remedied by setting up a stand
ard of excellence. It can ba remeaiea
by managers who aim to produce good
plays, even if they make only a 10 per
cent profit. It can be remedied by
playwrights who write what is In their
hearts, who write with literary and
dramatic skill, and who want to turn
o- a good piece of work even If they
do not get a town house and a country
house and a limousine thereby.
"It can be remedied by the public
that is willing to support, even if with
a primary financial loss, Independent
productions of good plays, to organize
theatrical societies for the betterment
of the American drama, really to work
work hard to remove this National
disgrace.
"I have read hundreds of plays by
young authors and old, and I have felt
always the desire of the writers to win
success at all hazards. They address
themselves always to the hundreds of
thousands of auditors whom they may
persuade to pay for tickets for the
play, rather than to the few discrimi
nating listeners who Judge a play by
its intrinsic merit. They are not will
ing to listen even to their own inward
voice that tells them what is good
drama and what is mush.
Playwright. Are Mercenary.
"The average American playwright
forets that he Is not a business man.
He wants to make as much money in
art as his neighbor makes in trade.
He wants more than anything else to
get on.' He wants a 'Breadway suc
cess. "And the Broadway successes are not
good work. They are raw. cheap, child
ish. They are absolutely ephemeral.
They not only are entirely lacking in
literary quality, but they are lacking
in dramatic quality as well. They are
mush. They are not plays at all." Mr.
Garland continued, with a very definite
note of sheer disgust in his voice.
"They are what the public calls them
they are Just, 'shows.' And they aren't
good shows at that."
The plea of manager and playwright
that they "give the people what they
want" is not. In Mr. Garland's opinion,
substantiated by the public's attitude
and the public's behavior.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "the
people don't know what they want
until they see it. It is impossible to
predict what the public reception of a
good play will be. So long as a poor
play is fairly entertaining and there is
nothing better, people go to it. But as
a matter of fact really good plays do
meet, almost invariably, with moderate
and sometimes with tremendous suc
cess. The public has better taste than
the managers know, or than it knows
Itself.
"The dramatic "literature of America
lags behind that of the civilized world.
But tho situation Is not hopeless.
Things were almost exactly the same
In England before Granville Barker
took hold of a season at the Court The
ater In London and began to put on
Bernard Shaw's plays. If it weren't for
Granville Barker's work England
would probably be as bad as America
today. It was he who brought forward
the work of Shaw, Galsworthy and
others who were unknown as writers of
producible plays before. Now England
has left us far behind.
"Our plays do not produce the effect
of reality. Thoy give us instead
strained emotion In stupid language,
false sentimentality expressed in com
monplaces. Our dramatists seem to
think that they can get realism suffi
cient realism to 'pay' by putting on
the stage a phonographic reproduction
of some very stupid talk by very stupid
people. The real truth of life, of feel
ing, the truth that shows through a
play the image of life for all this they
care nothing.
"Instead of dramatic quality we have
in the 'Broadway successes' a cheap -theatrical
effectiveness. Our drama, is
soaked in what I call effectism. Our
dramatists want to get an effect that
is all. Their work lacks quality, form,
distinction. A good deal of it is simply
sloppy.
"It lacks originality, too. The aver
age American playwright seems always
to be looking at some one else's work
Instead of at life. He hears that some
playwright has made a fortune from a
play, and he immediately wants to do
likewise. He thinks, 'How can I use a
situation like that in somewhat that
way and produce the same effect and
the same success without laying myself
open to a charge of actual plagiarism?
He doesn't loek at life. He looks at the
theater. He doesn't write what he sees
and what is in his heart. He hears of
the 'success' of 'The Music Master' and
The Lion and the Mouse' and he sets
to work to copy such models. It is all
'success' with him.
"The dramatist is. of course, particu
larly open to temptation. Plays are
usually written by people who hang
around theaters. The life of the thea
ter glittering, artificial, feverish is
such as to stimulate the desire for wild
success, for sensational achievement
even on a foundation of bad work.
Every encouragement Is given to cheap
work.
"There is no reason, however, why a
man who understands how to write,
who studies life rather than the thea
ter and the box office, should not write
a play. rramatlc technique is not so
hard to master. The man who can
write a good novel should be able to
write a good play.
Plays Are Tra.hy.
"The stage situation In America is
getting worse Instead of better, on the
whole. More and more plays are be
ing written and produced not for real
lovers of the drama, but for the hordes
of idle pleasure-seekers that throng
the New Tork hotels, that come from
all over America Pittsburg, Butte,
Mont., and Kankakee to spend money
freely and 'have a good time' for a few
weeks on Broadway. Of the theater
these people demand merely amuse
ment; anything that amuses them
'goes'; that Is their only standard. They
are not the people of New York City,
by any means; they are simply the
great floating population that wanders
up and down the Great White Way.
"This population is estimated today
at 260,000 persons every season. And
it is getting constantly larger. It fills
the theater with audiences and the
pockets of manager and playwright
with cash. It is the worst possible
Judge of what is good in drama. It
Is not representative of the real 'pub
lic' of New York or of America. Yet
it decides the destinies of our plays.
"It seems to me horrible that a few
men in New York City should dictate
all the plays that the people of Amer
ica are going to get. In order to
have spontaneous and varied produc
tions we should have more Independent
managers mora variety of taste. I per
sonally believe that the hope of the
situation in America lies with the actor-manager
both -producer and artist
such as Henry Miller and Mrs. Fiske.
"In all that I have said," Mr. Garland
concluded, "I want it understood that
I am speaking in general terms. I
am not attacking any group of man
agers. I am not even crying an abso
lute 'Down with the commercial man
ager!' I am by no means blind to the
fact that there are exceptions in this
criticism of mine. We have a few
playwrights who are doing good work.
Langdon Mitchell Is writing good plays.
John Luther Long is writing good
plays. Edward Sheldon's work is
promising- If he doesn't get too many
'contracts' and yield to the temptation
of commercialism. There is growing
up about Professor Baker of Harvard
a group of young men who can write,
who know dramatic technique, who are,
to a great extent, the hope of the coun
try, from the point of view of the dra
matist. "But every other art in America is
making long strides forward. A com
mercial Nation though we may be, we
are putting out, in other arts, good
work, and we are definitely advancing,
"But our stage does not advance. The
Broadway successes disgrace us."
WSIm Became Qi fto OimetA
FI MART GRAHAM MORItlSO RATNAU
WHILE the Gallic element- In
Pierre Thompson, the bequest of
his Creole mother, thrilled at
the touch of romance or superstition,
the Saxon element looked on In humor
ous appreciation, ready to apply the
brake at the proper moment. Thus
rierre was to be trusted Judicially as
well as emotionally.
It was through this dual nature of
his that he was enabled to deal so suc
cessfully with his islanders. A long
string of inlets off the Alabama coast
claimed rierre us their lord. Mere dots
In the gulf most of them were, worth
less bits of -scrub palmetto. One. some
miles in extent, however, was settled
by a mongrel breed of squatters, in
whom French, Spanish and African
blood showed in turn dangerous char
acteristics. Pierre, on coming into
Ms inheritance, found that much of his
revenue remained uncollected through
the cowardice of his agents. Fired by
love of adventure, he took upon him
self this d-jty. H:s audacity and ra
diant youth swept all before it. The
inlanders, so lately armed against the
scats, vre now ready to fiKi-t to the
death In the cause of Pierre. Ills
quarterly trips were triumphal
marches.
Oa the first of these tris he dis
covered Petit Diable. Tho child had
other names, so claimed Mere Helen.
the ghoulish old woman in whose hut
he lived, but from the time he could
toddle he had been so shocking, so
uncanny In his naughtiness, that he
was known only as the little devil of
the island. Such a fearless and fast-matin
little wretch, with it all. was
Petit IMab'.e that 1'ierre lost his warm
beart to him on the spot. Ho never
stayed away long enough to forget his
wee friend, and as for Petit Diable,
ro was always on the watch, ready to
all upon M'siru with frantic embraces.
casting a keen eye, meanwhile, on any
bulte in his pocket suggestive of a
c-y.
On Pierre's landing in September he
found hU eye roving ever the waiting
croup for oce ardent httie hrown face.
ud his welcome seemed i-old without
mc clp cf the teau little arms.
Where is Petit liable?" was his
first qustlon.
The Jabbering was hurhed to a queer.
constrained silence. Kach nudged the
otinr to speak up like a nun and tell
M'sieu of this stranse thing that had
befallen II. em.
"Hurry up there." t:ii;rd Pierre,
Where's the kldr'
Petit Diable allai " the tpokcsmaa
rol'.eJ His eyes helplessly at hia neigh
bors for assistance.
"Evidcnrtly he's aliai-ed, but where?"
persisted Pierre.
Bit by bit he extracted the story,
which finally came In a rushing chorus.
On the preceding Friday, so they said.
Mere Helena had sent the child down
to the beach for a panful of white sand
for her floor. He did not ret'urn. This
excited so alarm at first, promptness
not being expected of such a truant as
Petit Diabla; but when dinner passed,
and night was settling down. Mere
Helene herself had gone to look for
him. On the beach she found the empty
pan, m. little further on the sand was
torn up as it by a struggle, and that
was all. They had helped the old
woman search, all through the night,
the child was gone.
"An alligator?" suggester Pierre, only
to be reminded that the alligators ware
all back in tha hammocks.
"A shark
"It happened at ebb-tide. M'sieu."
That superstition was holding back
their own explanation Pierre divined,
his Gallic blood rising In anticipation.
With thumping heart ha shrank away
from the old woman who croaked In his
ear:
"There was the track of a cloven
hoof. ""M's leu."
Collecting his wits sufficiently to go
In search of Mere Helene, Pierre found
her skulking In her cabin well nigh
crazed with grief. Petit Diable when
alive had been her torment, but with
out him life was an abomination of
desolation. Melting under tha lorce of
M elcu's sympathy she recounted the
111 omens that had attended the child's
birth, and found speedy development
in his pitiful little life. That ha was
possessed by an erll spirit she bad
feared from the first, the devil bad but
carried off his own.
Pierre shivered In the blistering sun
shine. The heavy tropical odors sick
ened him. With ail haste ho set sail,
and was far out in the gulf before he
remembered the uncollected rent-
A little later the young woman whom
Pierre delighted to honor visited Mo
bile, and, cow that she was here, he
was in panic over entertaining her.
If a girl has blossomed in New Tork
society, and beea to London and seen
the Queen, what Is there left for a
Southern fellow to show her? Of cours
tbera were dinners and dances, and
then, Pierre having confided in his 11
bosom friends, there were more dinners
and dances. Finally it occurred to him
that a cruise on the gulf might offct
something in the way of diversion
He was all for renting a yacht, lie
would cheerfully have chartered a man-of-war.
when the girl herself interposed
in favor of a sailboat that Pierre used
on his trips to tha island. Tha primi
tive old craft, in consequence, blos
somed into a splendor of new rugs, and
cushions, and canvases.
The 11 bosom friends, each Joying In
the presence of his own lady love, were
on board, to say nothing of such neces
s'ties as sailors and chaperons, when
Pierre came dashing up with the guest
of honor. Gay little south winds filled
the sails, the boat swept down the bay
and out into the gulf; and when a
round moon came up out of the water
Pierre was blissful to the point of
pain. Ha had brought his guitar along,
naturally, and what song so voiced the
love and longing of the hour as "Man-
frnm
;S'o4 'iitf
dalay?" Pierre grew eloquent over the
Burma girl, who was
-A-naatin' Christian klcses on. an 'eathen
i.ioi-s tkL":
Bloomla fcl rnsd o mud
Wot they ca:l- tfce Clrcat llftwd Fuid
Plucky lot h. cred for uiola when I
KlMd 'r where !ie stood V
Emotion, unfortunately, so twisted
his tongue that he bundled the most
personal lines, and gazing deep Into the
eyes of his divinity, warbled:
"I've a cleaner, greener maiden in a neater
sweeter land-"
The 12 bosom friends having laughed
unnecessarily he made that an excuse
for taking her as far away from them
aa the boat permitted. Seated on the
bow. ami I vivifying dashes at
salt spray, Pierre found courage to
murmur of his love. She listened first
with tender raillery to tha sweet folly
of his love-making, and then, as he
grew more Imperative, a silence fell
upon her, and she ended by promising
to think about It. In a delirium of Joy,
Pierre tossed through the long night
and came on deck In tha morning a
limp rag of himself possessed, In tho
natural reaction, by tha fear that a
woman's promise to "think about It"
is but her gentla way of letting a fel
low down. The glare of tha sun was
Intolerable, and tha twelve bosom
friends devoted themselves to tha guest
of honor with exasperating ardor.
As night came on gusts of wind
swept across the gulf, patches of cloud
obscured tha glare, soma one made an
uneasy reference to this season of
equinoctial storms. Pierre would have
given his world to be rid of this un
pleasant pleasuring, but like a modern
Casablanca he had to stand his deck,
and presently all thought of self was
swallowed up In a great fear for tha
safety of his guests. The wind had
now risen to an ominous whistle, before
which the frail craft sped like a wan
ghost of her former self. The fickle
waves had turned upon them furiously.
Griped by this southern storm, they
were threatened momentarily with
submergence.
The Saxon element was now In the
ascendency, Pierre was battling with
Death for his beloved. When the storm
was at Its helgnt he went into tha
cabin, where she faced him piteously
white but very still. For a long minute
he held the cold little hands, and then
silently left her, left her strengthened
and comforted with a new courage
surging through his own heart.
Outside again, there was a depth of
darkness ahead suggestive to Pierre
of land. For hours past they had been
scurrying in the direction of his own
Islands. Another hour and the flick
ering hope had become a certainty. Tha
boat managed somehow to miss the
reefs, the current sweeping her with
eager haste into the sound, where the
still water made landing possible. They
were now close enough to recognize
the characteristics of the Islet, and
Pierre was giving directions for the
landing, when the negro cook clutched
his arm.
"Boss." he quavered, "fur da Lawd's
cake doan put in dar."
"Why, you old fool, you ought to
thank the Lord for the chance to
put In."
'But it's h'anted. Boss," he protest
ed frantically, his old face ashen with
terror. "It's h-'antedr '
"H'anta, nothing! Take hold of that
rope."
In cheerful defiance of superstition
and great thankfulness of spirit, the
draggled party struggled up the beaoh.
A hard, sandy slope stretched back for
some distance from the water, broken
only by broken clumps of yucca, which
clawed at them as they fought their
way Inward to the sheltering palmet
toes. The rain had subsided to a
mournful drizzle, the wind had died out,
save for an occasional convulsive burst.
Having selected a secure spot for a
camp, the men made painful trips to the
5fJlS -fiZ7 Xx-J '4.
boat for food and canvases, spurred on
by the fear that when the tide changed
the boat would be wrenched from her
moorings.
The flames of the attempted fire
trembling out before the soggy wood,
they huddled under one of the dripping
trees, their voices drowned by tha
booming of the waves, their eyes
strajned out into tha darkness. A
Jungle of palmettoes back of them
reared black heads against the murky
sky. Above them towered an immense
dead sycamore. Its every limb gleam
ing with tha silvery whiteness peculiar
to the tree. While untouched by decay
there was not a leaf to break Us grim
outline, and even in this darkness It
radiated a light of Its own. The very
ghost of a tree It seemed, the monarch
of this haunted islet.
There being nothing to tempt late
lingering tha little company soon
ought tha shelter of their canvases.
the deep sleep of exhausted youth pres
ently brooding over the camp. Without
a shadow of warning Pierre found
himself bolt upright, his heart thump
ing to suffocation. Within his earB
rang the echo of a shriek. Too dazed
to reason he felt a contortion spread
over the camp, each man struggling to
his feet, reaching trembling hands out
Into the darkness, clutching with com
fort the tangible form of his fellow
man.
The first thought of their returning
faculties was that some accident had
befallen the woman. Speeding to their
rescue they found them paralyzed with
fear but- safe. Even as they essayed
soma explanation the shriek came
again, a wall that'rose and broke over
them and trailed off into a shrill of un
utterable anguish. The sound seemed
to come from above, splitting the
silence with the widespread strength
of a foghorn. Half dragging, half
carrying the fainting women, they
fled down the beach. The boat still
tugged at her moorings, and into It
they felL Tha current swept them
from the shore, and on they fled Into
the dark world of waters, pursued by
that woeful shrieking.
The horrors of that night were miti
gated for Pierre by the brilliancy of
the days that followed. Out of the
darkness and doubt there had come to
him a blissful content, and It was. not
until a certain young woman left Mo
bile that he could bring himself to
Investigate the cause of their alarm.
Finally he returned to the Island, ac
companied by a scientist who con
tended that there must be some phys
ical explanation for the phenomenon.
He had with him also a member of a
society for psychical research, who
conversed learnedly of theosophy and
of the detachabillty cf astral bodies.
The little beach and bit of forest
were prosaic enough by daylight, and
above them the old sycamore drowsed
harmlessly In the sun. The camp was
unmolested, save for the food which
had been devoured by the birds. A
bevy of coots, at their approach, rus
tled out of tha trees and went skini
mfng across tho water like black
shadows. The scientist tapped the
roots of the firm old tree disappoint
edly, the psycsMst continued to argue.
As for Pierre he was nervous and dis
traught on -this scene of conflicting
memories.
Just as they were leaving he spied
a small bunch, not unlike a nest, in a
high fork of tho sycamore. On ex
amining it with field glasses he saw
that It was a roll of cloth. One of the
sailors made the difficult ascent of
the tree, scaled tha last slim limb, and.
pulling out the carefully folded bun
dle, dropped It to the waiting group
below. Then, and not till then, did
Pierre recognize the familiar little
garments. Further to establish their
identity he carried them over to the
Inhabited island. Yes, the natives
agreed, this was- what Petit Diable
had worn when he was spirited away
a ragged little gingham shirt and a
tiny pair of trousers.
(Copyright by Short-Story Pub. Co.)
Are Whiskers Beautiful?
New York World.
Concerning the protest of certain
gentlemen of Chicago against his de
mand that all men be clean shaven.
Dr. Wiley is quoted as saying: "The
arguments presented are not real ar
guments. The Chlcagoans plead for
their whiskers on the ground of beau
ty and beauty must be sacrificed to
health."
The case cannot with Justice be dis
missed in this summary way: It shows
a lack of proper consideration of the
relative value of things. In Chicago
beauty may be of higher value than
health, as there is a great deal of the
one in the city and very little of the
other. The real Issue is whether whis
kers add to the beauty of manhood,
and on that question the gentlemen
of Chicago speak with as much au
thority as Dr. Wiley.
Since St. Paul declared hair to be
the glory of a woman, would he not
have argued also that whiskers are
the glory of a man? Without his flow
ing beard Frederick Barbarossa could
not have so powerfully impressed the
Teutonic mind as he did, nor have so
potently affected history. Had Blue
beard been clean shaven he might
have become a henpecked husband.
It may be that In condemning the Chi
cago beard Dr. Wiley has never seen
the Chicago face.
The Dickens in TL"s All.
Harold Begbie's "Dickens' Characters in
Real Life" in the Century.
In fact, steadily contemplated and
sympathetically approached, every man
and woman has the makings of a Dick
ens character. Some are a little crude,
others have been injured artificially,
but all in their degree are the raw ma
terials out of which the master coin
pounded his immortals. And it is the
wildest folly of Ignorance to suppose
that odd fish are to be found oniy In
humble streams, to say that it is only
among the lowest classes that one finds
such characters as those who run riot
In the pages of Dickens. I never read
a biography without meeting the raw
material of ' Dlckensian immortals.
Consider such men as Sydney Smith,
Benjamin Disraeli, the Duke of WelJ
ington, CharleR Dickens himself all
Dlckensian characters. Will you allow
me to say that Theodore Roosevelt
would have been Bure of a doublo
Immortality if Dickens had been alive
to paint his portrait!'