Little Tin Pan Bassanio, his friend Shylock, a rich Jew Portia, a rich heiress Nerissa, her waiting maid Jessica, daughter to Shylock
L. T. Penselgore Solomon Fihrsahl Katharyn McPherson Marcella Ballantyn Jessie Spacer
Grandees of Venice, Officers of the Court, Gaolers, Attendants and others. Music by Rahnmaker's Orchestra.—Adv. Is knighthood dead? Is chivalry extinct? Ah, no! Lucius has given consent to play Bassanio. Wreaths of green laurel, emblem of honor floral, Should deck his pallid brow. That fearsome contract oral Requires that he, the speechless one, shall foam and rage In generous frenzy, whilst before the lighted stage All Greenville whispers back of hand or fluttering fan, "Bassanio's punk! The hook, the hook for Little Tin Pan!" These things foreseeing, he, to please the Red-Haired Maid, With equatorial brow and arctic feet, essayed To play the part or perish. Mere words can never tell How much he loathed the cursed'cue "Enter Bassanio, L." Rehearsals followed. Forecasted shadows of impending terrors Made poor Bassanio score a perfect string of errors, Till even partial Portia from violet eyes looked sad, While oily-sleek Antonio in his jealous heart was glad. With him in view for contrast, sweet Portia soon shall know All foibles, faults, and failings of her friend, Bassanio. Were all the years in vain that R. Don Overware Dispensed his fancy drygoods and strove to charm the fair? No, no! With ringing phrases, about the stage he swept While Lucius stalled and mumbled, and Katharyn softly wept. And nearer drew the hour (as hours have always done) At which the curtain rises upon Act I, Scene 1. It came. And with the rolling, bold swagger of a mouse, Lucius joined the gay procession that sought the Opera House — Then paused; his limbs were trembling; a strident, squeaky tune Proceeded from the portals of the Crystal Cave Saloon; He gasped — resolved — and entered; he leaned against the bar And with a hurried order left the mixer's mouth ajar: "Bartender, place four goblets before me in a row, And with your oldest whiskey make each one overflow. Thanks. Here's luck: One — two — three — four! Ah-h-h, that's better: now show me to the door." Erect, firm-stepping, confident, and jubilantly gay, The man of printed clamor went whistling on his way.
