Chapter LXXXVII: Number Five 355 (6)

Lackaye has a splendid brain, but he does not always use it kindly. In this he has no hidden motive, but it acts quickly and his tongue responds not always pleasantly. His wit savors more of the cynic than the humorist. He always assails a citadel, however, never a snow fort, and while his quick sallies many times provoke pain, as a rule they are given with a knowledge that they were well deserved, at least from his point of view. What I most admire about Lackaye is his honesty of purpose and his unflinching courage. In debate he shows no mercy and expects no quarter. He has all the instincts of the old school. He believes in upholding the dignity of the player and will not pander to the ephemeral parasites who have lately attached themselves to the fringe of the drama, the managers "who present."

If there were more Lackayes and fewer Cranes the actor would soon be in a position to assert his rights and maintain them.

I love some of Lackaye's remarks, particularly when he is annoyed. The last one I heard appealed to me. It seems he approached a very conspicuous actor who is now at his zenith with a request to join the Lambs in their forthcoming gambol on tour. Lackaye suggested that it would be quite a novelty for this player to revert to one of his old-time specialties and present a short monologue as a Baxter Street Jew, which once had made this particular actor famous. The actor who was packing a New York theatre in a serious rôle replied:--

"My dear Will, your request is preposterous! I could not possibly consider such an act! It would be suicide for me after struggling all these years to make my public weep to return to a vulgar monologue and make people laugh! Absurd, my boy, absurd! It would be fatal!"

Lackaye contemplated him for a minute, and remarked:--

"My dear ----, an onion will make anybody cry, but I have yet failed to discover a vegetable that will make people laugh."

Oh! how true this is! And yet people will come out of a theatre with swollen lids, expressing their delight at being privileged to cry! If they only knew how easy is the one and how difficult the other, they would pay more attention to the God-gifted one, appreciating the comic player who kisses away the tear that flows.

My opinion of Lackaye's acting is only equaled by his of mine. Lackaye has published his through the press. I have kept mine to myself. Neither of us is particularly complimentary. We agree on art with reference to ourselves.

Neither of us can act!

_Chapter XLIII_

"YOUNG" MANSFIELD

I once had a very dear friend, a young man of splendid dramatic ability with a likable but erratic nature. He is constantly falling in love. As a rule his heart petals fall to those of the opposite sex far beneath him intellectually. This young man has a most impressive and artistic temperament and has absorbed not a little knowledge of his art from the masters.

He has blazoned this superficial knowledge to such an extent that he has grown to believe that he is a most important and necessary adjunct to his profession. If he were possessed of the knowledge he imagines he has he would be a genius!

As it is he is a nuisance!

He has succeeded in making many enemies by his aggressive and argumentative manner in which only a genius can indulge. He has never annoyed me for I love his spontaneity and his youth. He has emulated the acts of several stars and, like the aspiring pugilist who is ever ready to assume the name of a champion older in experience, such as "Young" Corbett or "Young" Fitzsimmons, he delights in being known as "Young" Mansfield. He has some charm and is most convincing to those who are not conversant with his methods.

He has succeeded in interesting several conspicuous people--millionaires and prominent theatrical and operatic stars, including a prima donna known to fame. The latter became interested in him to such an extent that an amour sprang up and they disappeared for a time (that is they imagined they had, but delightful Paris, which always treats such vagaries as they deserve, was fully cognizant of the situation, looked on and smiled).

I was ignorant of their rendezvous. I never imagined that the lady whom he had mentioned to me as being mildly interested in him was in the same country until one day during a visit to a nerve specialist, to whom this young man had recommended me, the man of medicine remarked:--

"I was at the Opera last night and bowed to your young friend----but he failed to acknowledge the salutation. He concealed himself behind the curtains of the box he was occupying, evidently not seeking recognition. That was unnecessary as I am on the board of directors at the Grand Opera House and sent the box to Madam ---- whose guest your young friend was. Why should he disguise the fact that he was her friend?"

"Is that known in Paris?" I gasped.

"Certainly," he answered.

"And does it not affect the lady's social and professional standing?" I queried.

"My friend," replied the doctor, "we love artists; we question not the motives that make them artists, be it illicit love or sanctioned. It's all the same; they are creatures of caprice and have many nests."

"Does that apply to private life in Paris?" I asked.

"Certainly," quoth the Philosopher of Nerves. "Why, it is most difficult to give a dinner party these days. One cannot invite the husband without first ascertaining the name of his affinity, nor the wife without knowing the name of her sweetheart. My wife always arranges the table to avoid awkward complications."

I thought how delightfully naïve and completely perfect was their understanding. That splendid point of view was unlike the ostrich methods in vogue in London and insular New York.

No wonder my young friend and his prima donna met with disaster when they crossed the Channel!

But I admire him and his audacity.

_Chapter XLIV_

DAVID WARFIELD

Many years ago while I was playing at the Bush Street Theatre, San Francisco, a lad of about twenty, of Hebraic appearance, was constantly seated on the left-hand aisle watching each performance with evident delight. As I would come from the theatre he would follow me, on the other side of the street, now and then stopping to point me out to some boy friend.

One day I smiled at him and his face beamed with apparent pleasure. After that I often watched for my silent admirer.

Many years after I backed an enterprise in which he was featured--and lost ten thousand dollars! Later he became a leading fixture at Weber and Fields' Music Hall and made a pronounced success.

During my second engagement at the Knickerbocker Theatre he was always a visitor. He no longer sat on the aisle, however. I always sent him a private box. My youthful admirer who had blossomed forth as a star in the Weber and Fields' aggregation is now one of the most famous of American actors. His name is David Warfield.

After witnessing Warfield's great portrayal in "The Music Master" I began to believe in the star of destiny. I saw a man give a performance worthy of a master.

And he was without even the fundamental knowledge of his art!

Springing from obscure parents, with not an ounce of hereditary theatrical blood in his veins, naturally reticent, with a face not particularly attractive, save for a searching and penetrating eye, a mind alert, a shuffling gait--this is the man who on the stage is able to transform himself into one of the most sympathetic beings that I ever saw.

With a move of the hand he is grace itself. His delivery of lines bespeaks him a scholar. His face shines like one sent from the Deity!

The various emotions through which he passed in the sweetly harrowing (but inferior!) play, from gay to grave, from pathos to comedy and from that to tragedy, were expressed with a deftness and surety of touch--why, he sailed along with the assurance of a bird in its flight! Every effect he handled like a master! And when he made his exit up the miserable staircase, you realized that you had been entertained by an artist!

It is a pleasure to write about such a man, particularly one who wears the wreath of laurel so modestly, who apparently realizes so fully the kindness of the gods! And the gods help only those who help themselves.

Dear David, you deserve all that has been bestowed! Friend, I congratulate you, am proud to know you and feel privileged to call you by that much abused name.

_Chapter XLV_

A DAY AT RENO

Imagine over sixteen thousand human beings filing slowly from a cemetery where departed heroes have been put away from earthly cares! Imagine their conversation in hushed whispers, their bowed heads, smothered ejaculations! Hear the mumbled accusations emanating from a few of the unpleasant! So you will have a faint idea of the feelings of that motley, silent crowd which wended its way home after the Johnson-Jeffries contest at Reno, July 4, 1910.

When that human statue sank into obscurity through the center ropes, half of the huge bulk hanging listlessly on the outside, with the little Spartan, Abe Attell, vainly endeavoring to push the great wreck back into the arena (while the magnificent grinning piece of ebony was standing with clenched fists and wicked expression ready to administer the quietus that was within his power), a hush fell upon the assemblage.

All turned their heads as the inanimate fighter showed signs of returning consciousness. The ponderous Jeff with the aid of Attell and others slowly unwound himself from the meshes of rope and regained his equilibrium, only to be crushed again to the boards by the powerful fists of his adversary. Then a smothered cry from the spectators and all was over. The mangled gladiator was carried bleeding and bruised to his corner and another champion was heralded throughout the world.

I have never witnessed such a spectacle. What a hollow victory! What a disgraceful defeat! It was a defeat without pity, success without compliment! And yet it was a battle fought by two of the most magnificent specimens of humanity ever chiseled by nature's journeymen!

At the beginning they were magnificent--from the throat down! Their faces were not in harmony with their bodies. As each of these warriors stood in his corner ready for the fray I looked from one to the other and as my eye travelled from their feet to their heads I was dumbfounded at what their faces depicted.

Both had the expression of the craven! On each was the apprehension of impending danger accurately defined; alarm, dread, terror were imprinted indelibly upon each countenance, the negro trying to force saliva into a mouth as dry as an oven, endeavoring to smile while his jaws worked like the jaws of a hyena. Poor Jeff stood up, but only for a second. His ponderous legs refused to bear his weight of worry! They trembled so perceptibly that he was forced to seek his chair when his knees began to knock against each other in angry protests at what they were expected to perform.

It was past belief--strong men, equally capable of performing any feat of physical prowess, whose brains refused to obey their wills! Each knew his terrible responsibility, but the gray matter refused to supply the necessary oil to put the engines to work. Millions were waiting to hear the result.

I don't accuse either of abject cowardice. I believe that at that moment Jeffries would have faced a cannon and awaited the result as befits a soldier in battle. His trouble was that he was not the man of brain who could assume a responsibility.

Grant sacrificed thousands of men to attain a result. He would willingly have given his life if necessary a thousand times, but he was man enough to live for a cause, not die for it! Jeff, having a little more brain than his aboriginal antagonist, suffered more, hence his greater terror.

As the bell rang for the commencement of hostilities Jeffries, instead of rushing at his dusky opponent, assumed a defensive attitude, disobeying all instructions, all thought-out intentions. He had planned his battle as every general does, the night before, but in the ring he threw away all his plans and obeyed the dictation of a puny, tired, unresponsive brain. With every step he retreated the negro's courage gained and as the round progressed his assurance became more manifest. Confidence took the place of fear and as the bell rang to signify the end of the round victory shone in the negro's face and the knell of defeat had sounded for Jeff.

The king was dying, but not the death of a courageous man. He was dying, retreating, not advancing. The body was willing, but the brain was dead. Responsibility was the referee that counted out Jeff! That is the truth of this, the greatest and yet the weakest battle ever fought.

Let us draw a curtain over the Reno desert and be charitable to Jeff. God gave him brawn, but denied him the necessary brain to equalize it all.

Perhaps it's all for the best. There's a cloud on the horizon of Fistiana. Perhaps a bright young American may burst through, the sun may shine once more and a white American, impervious to mental collapse, may wear the laurel of champion.

Let us hope so.

I had taken a party of friends from New York to see the fight. We had travelled in a private car--and the return trip had been paid for in advance! As we left the arena and headed back to town not one of us, hardened sports as we all were, not one of us remembered that we had a fleet of automobiles waiting to take us to our car. We walked right by them! It was the longest, hottest, dustiest tramp I ever took.

Arrived in the car someone broke the silence with the suggestion that the first man who referred to the fight be thrown off the car. Our silence gave assent. As there was nothing else in the world to talk about--we kept still, how long I don't know, but it seemed hours.

Finally big George Considine realized his throat was parched and he pushed a button. Up to that moment the summons had never failed to produce our grinning porter from the little buffet instantly. This time there was no response. George pressed the button a second time. We all heard the bell distinctly. All of us had his gaze fixed on the buffet door. Again George rang the bell and this time he kept his thumb jammed against the button. Then he got to his feet and declared himself.

"If that nigger is in that buffet he'll never come out now--alive!" And with that he started.

We all sat tight and waited. In less than a minute George reappeared--laughing hysterically. For an instant I thought the terrible shock of the afternoon had affected his mind.

"Is he dead?" someone gasped.

"Nearly so," replied George, choking with glee. "You know I went in there firmly determined to kill him. But the minute he saw me he covered his face with both hands and said, 'Fo' Gawd's sake, Mr. Gawge, don' hit me. I'm good for nothin'. I caint lift a glass, let alone serve a drink. I'm so weak.' I asked him why. 'Well, you see, Mr. Gawge, I've been savin' and savin' fo' a year evah dollah I could scrap together; borrowed from my wife and soaked my watch at Chicawgo. I had six hunderd dollahs on my pusson when I got heah and it was all goin' on Mr. Johnson. But on this trip, listenin' to all you gemmen talk I got so I couldn't see Mr. Johnson nohow and switched and my money all went on Mr. Jeff'ies. When Mr. Jeff'ies received that awful wallop in the second round I said goodbye, wife and chillen, and when he was knocked out--I went with him! And I haven't come to yet!'"

We finally managed to induce him to come out of the buffet and told him we'd try to make him a little less miserable by chipping in on a purse for him. Somebody passed the hat. I threw in all I had in cash and I imagine every one else did. The total count was $51.25!

I thought we ought to cheer him up further and told him I would give him a good thing on the next fight. He just looked at me a minute, his black eyes nearly popping out of his head, then indicating the bills and silver in his hand said solemnly, "Me? ME, bet on a prize fight? Why guv'nor, I wouldn't bet this money that Mr. Johnson has licked Mr. Jeff'ies."

_Chapter XLVI_

LILLIAN RUSSELL

What a beautiful and misunderstood woman is Lillian Russell!

One reads only of her wondrous beauty, her splendid preservation and her marriages--seldom of her talents!

Possessing the soul of a saint, the true spirit of comedy, the repose of a Siddons, she must see all these splendid gifts made subservient to vulgar allusions regarding her private life, all cruel and absolutely false!

All through life she has endeavored to obtain only a home to enable her to bring her child up an honest woman. She has tried only to make her hand strong enough to keep and guide her. And these efforts have been as futile as her success as an artiste has been assured. Who shall say it is not the fault of those who have pointed the finger of scorn at a woman seeking only to do right?

Lillian Russell is first and always an artiste; honest to those who can appreciate trust and fidelity; never a knocker; the fairest actress and singer that ever shared applause with a brother or sister artist; without a desire to dissipate; a true companion and possessor of all the attributes that make a true woman.

Miss Russell, I kiss your hand.

_Chapter XLVII_

DRAMATIC SCHOOLS

I always lacked the moral courage to ask any member of my organization to resign, no matter what provocation I might have. In my entire experience I have discharged two actors--both actresses!

One of these was hardly more than a girl, most intelligent and rather pretty, who was sent to me highly recommended and said to possess marked histrionic abilities. She had appeared successfully in amateur performances of Shakespearean rôles and taken first prize at one of the modern schools of acting.

I cast her for a very minor rôle in one of my plays. In one scene where she had to criticize a picture of a celebrated artist in a speech of about fifteen lines (which required an intelligent rendering and a delivery which demanded at least elocutionary ability) she floundered about in a most incoherent and jumbling manner. And when she came to the particular speech for which I was sure she was qualified, the amateur Juliet fell, balcony and all!

I never saw such an exemplification of incapacity! It was a verification of what I have always felt regarding "schools of acting." There have been a few, a very few, graduates of the supposed academies of acting who have made successes on the legitimate stage. But it was brought about only by discarding the methods of these bunco professors, who dare to teach an art of which they know not.

The so-called professors of these schools as a rule have had their fundamental knowledge of the theatre only through books, and if an actor hangs out his sign you will find that his career has spelt failure or that he has become so pedantic that all theories of modern acting have been swept past his horizon.

I maintain that acting, if it can be taught at all, should be taught by an actor. Elocution and emphasis can be taught by a plumber or a gunman with the requisite authorities at hand. But even when those qualities are mastered they belong to the rostrum, not to the playhouse.

Acting is elementary and can be taught only by suggestion. Emotions can be transmitted only through psychological channels and facial expression. They cannot be taught. They are absorbed by those born with the talent for acting. Unless one is blessed with this talent all the professors of elocution or so-called "teachers of dramatic art" cannot make an actor or actress.

Granting that once in a while a budding genius has blossomed forth from one of these academies it is the exception that proves the rule. And even those who have graduated find it difficult to unlearn all that they have been taught. A school of acting, properly organized, would do no harm, but the student should be given his little speech to speak, then directed as to what not to do and the process of elimination continued until such times as he becomes at least an intelligent interpreter of what he is supposed to perform. For all of the arts acting most requires practical demonstration. And that can be taught only by professional tutors.

And how few are qualified to teach! One may have the power to portray without the ability to impart. That is why the stage manager is in such demand. So much more is demanded of the actor and actress than the mere delivery of lines. It would take many pages to illustrate what I mean, but as a rule in all these schools that dot the country very little attention is given to the technique of stagecraft. It is always lines, lines, lines, emphasis, intonation, etc. The system of Delsarte which devotes most time to the manner of making an entrance or an exit is of little value for fitting a student for the stage.

There are a few dramatic schools in Europe. In France they have the conservatories, the professors of which have either graduated from the Théâtre Française or are men of letters, qualified to teach. They are subsidized by the government and no one is allowed a course of learning unless he passes a rigid examination. If the ambitious show no qualifications they are not admitted. In this country they come from Haberdashers' County, the salesroom or bankers' homes. It is only a question of money. If they have the necessary wherewithal it's an open sesame. I maintain that it is all wrong and the "professors" who are opening the doors of dramatic art to the incompetent at so much a quarter are obtaining money under false pretenses.

_Chapter XLVIII_

NUMBER THREE (ALMOST)

A long, long time ago, while I was playing in Paris (Kentucky!) a party of ladies and gentlemen came down from Mount Sterling to witness our performance thinking they could leave Paris and get to Lexington the same evening. Unfortunately the railroad had changed its schedule and there was no train out until the following morning. My private car was waiting for me and I had taken the precaution to charter an engine to take me back to Lexington after the performance. When I arrived at the station I found the party very much disturbed at the prospect of having to remain in Paris over night.

I sent my secretary to them and he placed my car at their disposal. He told them that there was a nice supper prepared and that they were welcome to whatever the chef could furnish. I would remain in my stateroom and not interfere with their party. They accepted the invitation, but insisted that I join their party which consisted of three men and three women.

One young lady in particular attracted my attention with her radiant beauty. She was a magnificent creature, blonde and erect, possessing the complexion given only to those living in the Blue Grass country. During the journey I had little time to talk with her as one of the other young ladies who came from Boston usurped all my time discussing the drama and other topics equally uninteresting to me.

The beautiful blonde lady told the manager of the theatre at Lexington (he was a friend of hers, as well as of mine) that she considered me a very dull person. The manager defended me as best he could and told her that I was to dine with his family that night and he would be pleased to have her do likewise. She consented and that evening we met and had a jolly time.

I found her most intelligent and so far as my career on and off the stage was concerned she was a walking encyclopedia. In fact she knew more about my vagaries than I did myself, but as we progressed along lines of casual conversation I thought that I discovered a little scepticism relative to my supposed proclivities for wrong-doing. She asked me if I desired any beverage and I, trying to display proper gallantry, suggested the cool and refreshing draught, the wine of the country, Kentucky Bourbon.

As she poured out a small glass of the liquor she remarked, "I really thought that you were going to ask for a glass of metheglin."

"I have been drinking the ingredients which form that compound the entire evening," I replied.

She looked at me very intently as I swallowed the whiskey, then suddenly wheeled about and with a half hysterical note in her voice, said, "I don't believe it!"

Not having the remotest idea as to what she had reference I answered, "No more do I!"

She then said, "You don't understand!" I gasped, "Quite right!" She gently took my hand in hers and in a sweet, sad voice said:--

"You need a friend. Let me be your little friend. I know all about you. For years you have been my favorite player and I have read all the uncomplimentary articles written about you. Your gambling escapades, your supposed capacity for drink, your amours, scandals, in fact everything pertaining to your private life have interested me for years. But as I have read and re-read these accusations, which I know now to be absolutely false, I fail to discover where you had wronged anybody but yourself!"

It was the first time that anyone had spoken to me like that, with the exception of my little mother, and her words sank 'way down deep into my heart. We talked for several hours, in fact, until the dawn approached, but we interested each other to such an extent that neither was conscious of the departing night until we were rudely told by our hostess that our conduct was most disreputable and that the best place for me was a berth in my private car. During our conversation I had tried to convince her that I was pretty bad, but not so bad as Joe Jefferson painted.

After leaving Lexington I corresponded with her for some little time. Finally I heard that her parents were objecting and I told her that we must discontinue our correspondence. She refused to act upon my advice and insisted upon communicating with me once or twice a week. I answered her letters with the result that we became engaged. But my friend Fate again came upon the scene and exercised his authority.

I left "The Rivals" tour with a heavy heart, for several reasons. I had signed a contract for a sixteen weeks' tour in Australia. Many wondered why. I sent out the rumor that it was to see the country and to further my artistic desires.

The real reason? I was running away from a woman.

Cowardly? Well, let's reason it out.

Briefly the young lady from Kentucky and I met many times after our first interview and a friendship sprang up that soon ripened into love. I saw a way of releasing myself from my second marriage. The lady who bore my name accepted a large sum of money and allowed me to procede. My plans were all laid. I brought suit in a town in lower California.

But now a friend of the Kentucky young lady warned me against proceeding and met me in Louisville. She told me that my fiancee had informed her parents of her intentions and they were furious, had entered all sorts of protests and threatened even violence. I listened very quietly, waiting to learn my fiancee's attitude. She was determined and defiant and meant to go through.

I told her friend that I could readily understand the attitude of the young lady's family and endorsed it. What did they know of me except through the newspapers? I should not care to entrust my daughter or sister to the keeping of a man with my unsavory reputation. I promised then and there that I would endeavor to break the engagement and her friend left very much delighted. I took the matter up with the young lady, but she refused absolutely to annul the agreement. She even threatened to leave her home and join me. Of course I soon argued her out of that determination. But the most she agreed to was to wait until such time as I should be free.

I had determined upon my course. By various means I had fathomed the whole situation. She was the favorite daughter of a very large family. Her father, passed beyond the eighties, fairly worshipped her. Her brother simply idolized her. Was it fair to break up this happy home? I could only answer my own question negatively. I sent for one of the members of the family. He came, unknown to her, and I suggested that I go at once to Europe and remain there for a year.

"That won't do," he said. "She will follow you. We can do nothing with her at home; she is a determined woman and has made up her mind."

While talking I thought of an offer I had received for an Australian tour and excusing myself I went to the telegraph office. Presently I came back with a copy of a wire to George Musgrove which I had just sent to New York. It read:

"Accept Australian terms. Open June twenty-fifth. If successful
will continue to India, South Africa and London."

"Will that satisfy you and the members of your family?" I asked.

"Come and have a drink!" he replied and over an apple toddy informed me that I was a good fellow. He took the next train for Lexington leaving me alone at the Galt House bar with my thoughts and an apple toddy!

Ahead I saw only a trip of ten thousand miles to an unknown country, which I had no desire to visit, and a divorce procedure under way that had cost me thousands to bring about. I was about to leave friends, family and a woman who was sure to loathe my name when she heard of my act--and all for what?

It was simply to appease the transient sorrow of a family too selfish to allow their offspring to obey the dictates of her own honest heart. They had no thought of her anguish, her future and as for me--of what matter my end? The profligate could go on his way destroying more homes to build one of his own, take a journey into other lands in quest of more victims, etc!

If I had only been more selfish, what a different life mine would have been! Not that I am ashamed of any act of my past, but the impressions I have unwittingly made would never have been made; my inclinations would have been established; my true motives known to the world, and children, perhaps, be born to endorse my attitude toward mankind!

Fate said "No," and I began my journey to the Antipodes, leaving as a legacy to the Kentucky woman--a lie!

Fifteen years later we met in New York. We drove through Central Park and I told her the truth. When I had finished she said nothing; for almost an hour we drove in silence. She then turned to me and simply replied, "Well I've waited all these years to prove what I thought was true. It is over now and I presume we both are happy."

Are we? I wonder!

It was Poe who wrote Annabel Lee:--

The moon never beams
Without bringing me dreams
Of my beautiful Annabel Lee.

It is a strange world. The young lady married some few years ago. I hope she is happy; she deserves to be.

_Chapter XLIX_

THE CONFESSIONAL

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;
He, who, secure within, can say:
"Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day!"

Come fair or foul, or rain or shine.
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine!
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been,
And I have had my hour.--JOHN DRYDEN

I have--

been addicted to the use of alcoholic stimulants--but always with
distinguished and worthy companions;

deserted home and fireside, always by request, bought and dearly
paid for;

lied--to myself--for recreation;

cheated--the undertaker;

deceived--only "yours truly;"

been a reveler--during the day, always too busy at night;

been a gambler--on the green;

a rambler--on the nod;

an actor--on the job;

a hypocrite?--no, by God!

The Shubert theatres and Carnegie libraries are running a dead heat in an earnest endeavor to perpetuate their respective names.

What sublime egotism and how humorous! A race between a Scotchman and a Jew!

Now if only a New England Yankee could be persuaded to enter the race I would back him to win! He would be sure to erect against every library and theatre a soup house in which to feed the inartistic hungry--and he would get the money, too.

* * * * *

I have been accused by many of my reviewers of being a casual person, with no reverence for my art; a trifler, unreliable, never taking myself seriously. To all of which I plead guilty. I am casual; I never found it necessary to plod. I have little reverence for the art that has never played fair with me.

I had to play in London to discover that I was an artist.

A trifler? Yes--when circumstances compelled me to associate with pin-headed critics.

And why should I take myself seriously when nobody else does?

Mind you, when I say I plead guilty that does not signify that I am. Many a man has pleaded guilty to save himself from the hangman's noose, being assured that by so doing he will receive life imprisonment. If after a perusal of the itinerary that I have written in this book of thirty-nine years before the public, in which I prove that I have run the gamut from an end man in a minstrel show to Shylock in "The Merchant of Venice" anyone pronounces me guilty I am willing to abide by his verdict.

But none will deny that I have worked--worked hard--and enjoyed it!

* * * * *

The three saddest events in my life:--

The burial of my son.

The death of Eliza Weathersby.

Inspecting Her Majesty's Theatre, London, with Sir Henry Irving under the guidance of Beerbohm Tree, then the lessee and manager!

The three happiest events:--

The birth of my son.

The presentation of a loving cup to me by the Lambs Club.

My first performance in "The Merchant of Venice."

* * * * *

I earnestly beseech my readers, particularly the professional critics to whom I pay my respects later, not to misconstrue my motives nor consider any of my references as personal. They are simply mild protests at the methods employed of featuring my professional and private lives, particularly the latter.

For years I have been misrepresented, at times assailed, brutally assaulted. I am not defending any real act that has ever been exploited; my principal objection is that the real bad in me has never been discovered! Only the supposed errors and little idiosyncrasies are all they have endeavored to circulate.

What has been printed is puerile and worthy only of contempt. I am really capable of far more devilish accomplishments than those with which they have credited me, but they are apparent only to my intimate friends who know my tremendous capacity for wrong-doing!

Conscious of my alleged proclivities I find supreme consolation in knowing a dear old lady living in Boston who is proof against the accusations made against me. Really she does not believe them. For years I have been the recipient twice a week of just such epistles as this, my latest love letter:--

MY OWN DARLING SON:

We were both very very happy to get your dear letter this
morning, yet sorry to hear you are suffering with Sciatica and
Rheumatism, I do hope the next letter we get, you will be able
to walk with a Cane; very thankful you are not having but very
little pain in the back. I know dear that you dont believe in
Christian Science yet I feel it is helping us all and if mother
is happy in that belief, I know you wont mind me writing this to
you. I've prayed night and day your Back would heal and your legs
would grow Stronger every day, and I really believe my prayers
have helped you; now I am going to work hard night and day for
you to get rid of Sciatica and Rheumatism, and tell me in your
next letter if you are getting all over your illness, and those
weak nerves, even if you dont believe in C. S. I've just read
this to Dad, he says, tell Nat his mother is crazy. Give Miss
Moreland my fond love and all good wishes for her kindness to
our darling, God bless her, tell her I often think of her and
hope I may see her Soon, and tell her how very grateful I am and
thank her over and over again, dont know what you would have
done without her, through all your terrible Sufferings. Dad has
written you all the news which isn't very much. I am able to
get around and waiting to get Stronger to go out. Dad joins in
sending our fond love with kisses God bless you may you improve
every day rapidly, and soon be ready for business and enjoy
perfect health and great Success in your new part--with all the
happiness there is, is ever my constant and Silent prayers always
for our Darling Son. From your ever loving and affectionate mother