143

BUFFALO BILL.

As might have been expected, the
opera house was filled to overflowing
last night to see the great scout of the
plains, his wild Indians, black bears,
buffalos and jack-rabbits, all of which
the flaming posters on the dead walls
announced would be present. But the
small boy and the lover of western romance
were disappointed. There were
no buffalos, no black bears, no wild Indians;
but instead a third-rate dramatic
company, playing at some sort of a
sickly play without point or pith. There
was not a passable artist in the crowd,
and if there. had been there was nothing
in the play to bring him or her out.
Bill himself did remarkably fine in a
character he has created and which he
has played thousands of times. The
support was simply vile, and unworthy
the Alabama Varieties in its palmy
days. But yet the house was crowded.