But the husband was in a distressful state. While sympathetic friends endeavored vainly to calm him he walked the floor of the room adjoining the sick room. At frequent intervals he beat upon the connecting door and from those within pleaded for assurance that all was going well. Yet the answers, while consoling, did not avail to soothe his agitation. What the midwife told him only seemed to harass him the more. Messages of cheer from the trained nurse were received by him with choked groaning sounds. Finally he called through the keyhole that he must have a word personally with the officiating practitioner. The old gentleman came forth. “Doctor,” exclaimed the suffering young man, “I’ve been waiting for hours now. I can’t stand this terrible suspense any longer. Doctor, for my own sake, please tell me what the prospects are?” “Well, son,” said the doctor. “I can only say this to you: I’ve been bringing babies into the world for forty-odd years now—and I never lost a father yet.” § 362 Examples of the Higher Criticism Whenever actors get together it is almost inevitable that sooner or later the subject of dramatic criticism will come up and that someone present will quote a notice favorable or unfavorable—but generally favorable—touching on his own work. No symposium of this sort is complete without reference to the instance of tact displayed in print by a local reporter on a certain historic occasion in a small middle-Western city when ambitious non-professionals gave an incredibly awful performance of a classic drama. The newspaper man who had been detailed to cover the performance was wishful to avoid giving offence to the members of the cast yet, in honesty, he could say nothing complimentary. So he merely wrote this: “For the benefit of the new hospital fund, our leading amateurs presented ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ at the theatre last night before a large audience of our best townspeople. The orchestra rendered several pleasing selections and the acoustics of the hall were never better.” Then there is the famous criticism done by an editor in Rising Sun, Indiana, when a certain native-born prodigy essayed the rôle of the melancholy Dane. The criticism ran something like this: “Among scholars there has long been a dispute as to whether the works attributed to Shakespeare were written by Shakespeare or by Bacon. The editor of this paper has hit upon a satisfactory way of settling for all time this ancient question. Let the tombs of both be opened. The one who turned over in his grave last night was the author of Hamlet!” I am reminded also of what Kin Hubbard, better known as “Abe Martin,” had to say years ago of a certain theatrical entertainment. For brevity and yet for completeness I think it would be hard to beat this: “Al Jeffreys’ ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin Company’ played at the opera-house last night. The Siberian blood hound was badly supported.” Hap Ward, the comedian, furnishes one from his own experience: