s most
exceptional member, who would be complete without the other two. He is
most decidedly a virtuoso in vaudeville. Very gifted, certainly, if at
moments a little disconcerting in the flexibility and the seemingly
uncertain turns of his body. It is the old-fashioned contortionism
saved by charming acrobatic variations. This "Legroh" knows how to
make a superb pattern with his body, and the things he does with it
are done with such ease and skill as to make you forget the actual
physical effort and you are lost for the time being in the beauty of
this muscular kaleidoscopic brilliancy. You feel it is like
"puzzle--find the man" for a time, but then you follow his exquisite
changes from one design into another with genuine delight, and
appreciate his excessive grace and easy rapidity. He gives you chiefly
the impression of a dragon-fly blown in the wind of a brisk morning
over cool stretches of water. You would expect him to land on a
lily-pad any moment and smooth his wings with his needle-like legs.

So it is the men and women of vaudeville transform themselves into
lovely flower and animal forms, and the animals take on semblances of
human sensibility in vaudeville. It is the superb arabesque of the
beautiful human body that I care for most, and get the most from in
these cameo-like bits of beauty and art. So brief they are, and like
the wonders of sea gardens as you look through the glass bottoms of
the little boats. So like the wonders of the microscopic, full of
surprising novelties of colour and form. So like the kaleidoscope in
the ever changing, ever shifting bits of colour reflecting each other,
falling into new patterns with each twist of the toy. If you care for
the iridescence of the moment you will trust vaudeville as you are not
able to trust any other sort of a performance. You have no chance for
the fatigue of problem. You are at rest as far as thinking is
concerned. It is something for the eye first and last. It is something
for the ear now and then, only very seldomly, however. For me, they
are the saviours of the dullest art in existence, the art of the
stage. Duse was quite right about it. The stage should be swept of
actors. It is not a place for imitation and photography. It is a place
for the laughter of the senses, for the laughter of the body. It is a
place for the tumbling blocks of the brain to fall in heaps. I give
first place to the acrobat and his associates because it is the art
where t