David Belasco

Behold Belasco in his den,
Wielding the scissors, paste and pen,
And writing with consummate skill
A play by W. De Mille.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Wolf.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Arnold Bennett

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

George Bernard Shaw

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Milk Jug

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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John Drew

For Perfect Form there are but few
That can compare with Mr. Drew;
A Form most fittingly displayed
In rôles from London, tailor-made
By Messrs. Maughn, Pinero, Jones,
In quiet, gentlemanly tones.
The Nouveaux-Riches flock, day by day,
To learn from John how to display
(Without unnecessary gloom)
The manners of the drawing-room.
This possibly may be the cause
(Or one of them) why John Drew draws.

Oliver Herford

Shakespeare

Will Shakespeare, the Baconians say,
Was the Belasco of his day--
Others more plausibly maintain
He was the double of Hall Caine.

Oliver Herford

A Manager's Perplexities

Were I a king in very truth,
And had a son - a guileless youth -
In probable succession;
To teach him patience, teach him tact,
How promptly in a fix to act,
He should adopt, in point of fact,
A manager's profession.
To that condition he should stoop
(Despite a too fond mother),
With eight or ten "stars" in his troupe,
All jealous of each other!
Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,
Each member a genius (and some of them two),
And manage to humour them, little and great,
Can govern a tuppenny-ha'penny State!

Both A and B rehearsal slight -
They say they'll be "all right at night"
(They've both to go to school yet);
C in each act MUST change her dress,
D WILL attempt to "square the press";
E won't play Romeo unless
His grand...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Address. For the Benefit of Henry Placide.

(Spoken by Mrs. Hilson.)




    The music's done.    Be quiet, Mr. Durie!
Your bell and whistle put me in a fury!
Don't ring up yet, sir--I've a word to say
Before the curtain rises for the play!

    Your pardon, gentlefolks, nor think me bold,
Because I thus our worthy promoter scold:
'Twas all feigned anger.    This enlightened age
Requires a RUSE to bring one on the stage!

    Well, here I am, quite dazzled with the sight
Presented on this brilliant festal night!
Where'er I turn, whole rows of patrons sit--
The house is full--box, gallery, and pit!
Who says the New-York public are unkind?
I know them well, and plainly speak my mind--
"It is our right," the ancient poet sung--
He knew the value of a woman's tongue!
With ...

George Pope Morris

Address For The Opening Of The Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, December 3, 1873

Hang out our banners on the stately tower
It dawns at last - the long-expected hour I
The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won,
The builder's task, the artist's labor done;
Before the finished work the herald stands,
And asks the verdict of your lips and hands!

Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget
The golden sun that yester-evening set?
Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away
Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day;
With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came
And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame;
The pictured sky with redder morning blushed,
With scorching streams the naiad's fountain gushed,
With kindling mountains glowed the funeral pyre,
Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire, -
The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Before the Curtain

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize,
A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze
Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze.

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide,
And hardly fit for royal Richards stride,
Or Falstaffs bulk, or Denmarks youthful pride.

Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards;
Oer it no king nor valiant Hector lords:
The simplest skill is all its space affords.

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play,
The local hit at follies of the day,
The trick to pass an idle hour away,

For these no trumpets that announce the Moor,
No blast that makes the heros welcome sure,
A single fiddle in the overture!

Bret Harte