I came across a wonderful dramatic notice the other day, though

not by a full-time reviewer. A century ago, Uncle Tom’s Cabin

came to my small New England town and one of my neighbors’

forebears, the local correspondent for the area’s weekly

newspaper, reported on the production thus:

The Henry family rendered the drama of Uncle Tom’s Cabin at

Church hall last Saturday evening in a truly unique manner.

Playgoers say they never saw it rendered in such a way before.

The little folks did themselves credit as Topsy and little Eva,

and Mr. Henry proved his versatility by playing six parts, but he

forgot to return some furniture borrowed of a neighbor, also to

give the admission tickets promised for the use of it. Forgot to

mention the breaking of a valuable reflector belonging to the

hall, and some tools borrowed of a neighbor disappeared with the

troupe and cannot be found.

Well, that’s the theatrical class for you. Yet many of us

professional critics will also recognize ourselves in that short

notice: we know those occasions when the eighth-row center comps

mysteriously fail to materialize at the box-office, and we find

ourselves wedged into a restricted-view seat trying not to let

churlish and resentful thoughts about the press agent infect our

impression of the play. We know, too, those evenings when no

matter how