In the latest number of the Burton Roscoe-ized Bookman the eminent Mr. Benchley, critic of "plays, skating rinks, and the more refined night clubs", dwells at length on what he deems the "best theatrical performance of the month"--the month being November last, and the artist being the young gentleman from New Haven who entertained some fifty thousand people with his convivial antics. This feat avows the self-confessed humorist, was tremendous; and only the captious will counter with a--yes, but is it art?

It was a remarkable tour de force, that particular example of what Mr. Benchley terms "unconscious exhibitionism". The weather was bitter cold and without that blithe victim of "divine afflatus" the period between halves would have seemed an unnecessary purgatory. But few there were who dreamed that the young man's romp would go down in history--as it has gone down in the Bookman. It was one of those inspired moments; the antique-hatted and cooncoated young gentleman might have expected notices from sports writers and columnists--but a real flesh and blood theatrical reviewer must have been beyond his wildest dreams.