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Buffalo Bill.

The audiende at Wieting Opera House on Saturday
night was not only squeezed tight into the
farthest corner of the theatre, but it hung over
the edges like the froth on the top of a schooner
of beer. In all respects it was a reproduction of
the old assemblages which made the Mechanics'
Fair memorable. The occasion of this popular
demonstration was the appearance of that hero
of the plains, Buffalo Bill. A wild shout of approbation
lifted itself from the throats of the
great crowd, while the timid ladies trembled
lest the roof be rent from its fastenings, when
its idol, the staiwart Indian fighter, stalked out
of the wings. Buffalo Bill is a great deal more
of a curiosity than he is an actor, but he shows
marked evidences of improvement in his
art during his short theatrical career. He has
an excellent company and a play that keeps the
figure of the idolized scout in the eye a good
part of the time, a requisite that meets with
general approval. Buffalo Bill's author is not
so prodigal of powder and ball as he was wont
to be, the number of slain being comparatively
small in the present play. Still the Indians are
made to bite the dust with sufficient expedition
to satisfy the gallery gods' appetite for gore.
People who have neither a wild desire to see the
sturdy son of the forest, whose unerring aim and
magnificent prowess are the theme of song and
story, nor an insatiable longing to witness a thrilling
depiction of civilization in the far west,
where life is as cheap as dirt and grit is better
than gold, should go to see Buffalo Bill's play
to catch a glimpse of an audience of 1,500 people
moved to ecstacy by the simplest word of
the untrained eloquence of one man. No small
part of the show is in front of the footlights.