Then came the great "charity benefit," and "Camille"—that "Ninon de l' Enclos" of the drama, who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers at her feet.

It is amazing how much accident has to do with the career of actors.

Shakespeare says:

And heaven knows I "rough-hewed" the "Camille" proposition to the best of my power. I came hurrying back to New York, specially to act at the mighty benefit, given for the starving poor of the city. Every theatre was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket purchased was good at any one of them. I had selected "Love's Sacrifice," an old legitimate play, for that occasion and Mr. Palmer had cast it, when an actress suddenly presented herself at his office declaring she had made that play her property, by her own exceptional work in it in former years, at another theatre. Threatening hysterics often prove valuable weapons in a manager's office, where, strangely enough, "a scene" is hated above all things.

I was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was anybody's property, and at once withdrew in the interest of peace. But what then was to be done for the benefit? Every play proposed had some drawback. Mr. Palmer suggested "Camille," and all my objections crowding to my lips at once, I fairly stammered and spluttered over the expression of them: I hated! hated! hated! the play! The people who had preceded me in it were too great! I should be the merest pigmy beside them. I did not think Camille as vulgar and coarse as one great woman had made her—nor so chill and nun-like as another had conceived her to be. And the critics would fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. They would justly cry "Presumption," and—and—I had no clothes! no, not one stitch had I to wear (of course you will make the usual allowance for an excited woman and not take that literally!) and then, oh, dear! I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself, but to tell the exact truth, I wept—for the first and only time in my life—I wept from anger!

We all fumed—we, meaning Mr. Palmer, Mr. Cazauran, that ferret-faced, mysterious little man, whose clever brain and dramatic instincts made him so valuable about a theatre; and the big, silently observant Mr. Shook, and I. Cazauran said he knew all the business of the play and could tell me it, and began with certain things Miss Heron (the greatest Camille America had had) had done, and I indignantly declared I would leave a theatre before I would do as much. I argued it was unnecessary. Camille was not brutal—she had associated with gentlemen, members of the nobility, men who were acquainted with court circles. She would have learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutalities would have shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted Armand. Her very disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment. If she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of the world. She allured men by the very refinement of her vice. And as I paused to take breath, Mr. Shook's bass voice was heard for the first time, as he asked, conclusively: "Whom can we get for Armand on such short notice?"

I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer: "The critics"—I gasped and stopped. He smiled reassuringly and said: "Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best and remember it's only for once."

"Dear Lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks I made my way home, with a copy of the detested play in my hand. Late that evening I was notified that Mr. Mayo would play Armand.

I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I should look like a school-mistress in one act and a stage ingénue in another. I had a ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. I should only be correct when I got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. Actress fashion, I got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string of amber beads to study—I never learn anything so quickly as when I have something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has assisted me over many and many an hour of mental labor—a pleasanter custom than that of walking and studying aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to one's near neighbors.

The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. We went over two acts on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day, and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of hammering and sawing, of running and ordering—for every stage was filled at the rear with rushing carpenters and painters. Yet those were the only rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance, and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and I remember I spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the handsome young English woman who did Olympe to keep out of my chair and to go to and from the piano at the right moment.

The house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what was then called "The Lyceum," which Charles Fechter had just been having remodeled, and the police discovering that day that the floor of the balcony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, very cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming message in the ear of a person here, there, and yonder, who would nod, rise, and step quietly out, returning a moment later to smilingly motion their party out with them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic being caused, though it made one feel rather sick and faint afterward to note the depth to which the floor had sagged under the feet of that tightly packed audience.

James Lewis used to say to me: "Clara is the biggest fraud of a first-nighter the profession can show. There she'll stand shivering and shaking, white-sick with fright, waiting for her cue, and when she gets it, she skips on and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for a year at least. No wonder Mr. Daly calls her his best first-nighter."

So at that first performance of "Camille," as Frank Mayo touched my icy hand and burning brow, and saw the trembling of my limbs, as with fever-dried lips I waited for the curtain's rise, he said: "God! but you suffer! I reckon you'll not act much to-day, little woman!" And a few minutes later, as I laughed and chatted gayly through the opening lines of the play, I distinctly heard Frank say: "Well, of all the sells! Why confound her, I'm twice as nervous as she is!"

The first act went with a sort of dash and go that was the result of pure recklessness. The house was delighted. The curtain had to go up twice. We all looked at one another, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. The second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot passion between Armand and Camille that when De Varville's torn letter was cast to Nanine as Camille's answer, and the lovers leaped to each others' arms, the house simply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up and down, Mayo gasped in amazement: "Well, I'm damned!" But I made answer: "No, you're not—but you will be if you hammer my poor spine in another act as you have in this. Go easy, Frank; I can't stand it!"

The third act went beautifully. Many women sobbed at times. I made my exit some little time before the end of the act, and of course went directly to my room, which was beneath the stage, and there began to dress for the ball-room scene, and lo! after Armand had had two or three calls for his last speech, something set them on to call for Camille. And they kept at it, too, till at last a mermaid-like creature—not exactly half fish and half woman, but half ball-gown train and half dinky little dressing-sack—came bobbing to the curtain side, delighting the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of the illusion of the play.

In the fourth act Mr. Mayo played base-ball with me. He batted me and hurled me and sometimes I had a wild fear that he would kick me. Finally, he struck my head so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my scalp and I found a few moments' rest in truly fainting from fatigue, fright, and pain.

But it all went. Great heaven! how it went! For Mayo was a great actor, and it was but intense excitement that made him so rough with me. Honestly we were so taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew what to make of the frantic demonstrations—whether it was just the result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, or whether we were giving an extremely good performance.

The last act I can never forget. I had cut out two or three pages from the dialogue in the book. I felt there was too much of it. That if Camille did not die, her audience would, and had built up a little scene for myself. Never would I have dared do such a thing had it been for more than one performance. That scene took in the crossing of the room to the window, the looking-glass scene, and the return to the bed.

Dear heaven! it's good to be alive sometimes! to feel your fingers upon human hearts, to know a little pressure hurts, that a little tighter pressure will set tears flowing. It was good, too, when that madly-rushed performance was at last over, to lie back comfortably dead, and hear the sweet music that is made by small gloved hands, violently spatted together. "Yes, it was 'werry' good."

And Mr. Palmer, standing in his box, looking at the pleased, moist-eyed people in front, took up the cue they offered, so promptly that within twenty-four hours I had been engaged to play Camille at the Union Square, as one of a cast to be ever proud of, in a handsome production with sufficient rehearsals and correct gowns and plenty of extra ladies and gentlemen to "enter all!" at the fourth act. And more still, the new play that was then in preparation was called in and packed away with mothballs to wait until the old play had had its innings.

Such a cast! Just look at it!

If Mr. Palmer ever eats opium or hashish and has beauteous visions, I am sure he will see himself making out those splendid old casts again.

Every theatre-goer knows it's difficult for a stout, romantic actor to make his love reach convincingly all the way round, and it is almost as difficult for an actor who has attained six feet of height to make his love include his entire length of anatomy. But Charles R. Thorne was the most satisfactory over-tall lover I ever saw. He really seemed entirely possessed by the passion of love. "My God Thorne" he was nicknamed because of his persistent use of that exclamation. Of course it did often occur in plays by authority of their authors, but whenever Thorne was nervous, confused, or "rattled," as actors term it, or uncertain of the next line, he would pass his hand across his brow and exclaim, in suppressed tones: "My God!" and delicious creepy chills would go up and down the feminine spine out in the auditorium—the male spine is not so sensitive, you know. A fine actor, hot-tempered, quick to take offence, equally quick to repent his too hasty words; as full of mischief as a monkey, he was greatly beloved by those near to him. I worked with him in perfect amity, albeit I do not think he ever called me anything but Johnny, the name Lou James bestowed upon me at Daly's; and his death found me shocked and incredulous as well as grieved. He should have served his admiring public many a year longer, this most admirable Armand.

And Mr. Parselle, what a delight his stage presence was. He had unction, jollity, tenderness, dignity, but above all a most polished courtesy. It was worth two dollars to see John Parselle in court dress, and his entrance and salutation as Duval Père in the cottage scene of "Camille" was an unfailing gratification to me—he was a dramatic gem of great value.

Mr. Stuart Robson, by expressing a genuine tenderness of sympathy for the dying woman in the last act, amazed and delighted everyone. It had not been suspected that a trained comedian, who hopped about and lisped and squeaked through the other acts, could lay aside those eccentricities and show real gentleness and sincerity in the last—a very memorable Gaston was Mr. Stuart Robson.

But oh, how many of these names are cut in marble now! Poor Claude Burroughs! with his big eyes, his water curls, and his tight-waisted coats. We would not have poked so much fun at him, had we known how terrible was the fate approaching him.

And little Katie Holland—she of the knee-reaching auburn locks, the gentlest of living creatures—God in His wisdom, which finite man may not understand, has taken and held safe, lo! these many years.

As an ex-votary of pleasure, Prudence is always more convincing if she can show some remnant of past beauty; so the statuesque regularity of feature the Mestayer family was famous for, told here, and the Prudence of Miss Emily Mestayer was as handsome and heartless a harpy as one ever saw.

Then, too, there were the gorgeous Maude Granger, the ruddy-haired Claxton, and the piratically handsome Rankin; their best opportunities were yet to come to all three. And with that cast Mr. Palmer achieved a great success, with the play that, old then, shows to this day the most astounding vitality.

The only drawback was to be found in its impropriety as an entertainment for the ubiquitous "young person," in the immorality of Camille's life, which was much dwelt upon. Now—oh, the pity of it!—now Camille is, by comparison with modern plays, absolutely staid. It is the adulteries of wives and husbands that the "young person" looks unwinkingly upon to-day. Worse still—the breaking of the Seventh Commandment no longer leads to tragic punishment, as of yore, but the thunders that rolled about Mount Sinai at the promulgation of that awful warning: "Thou shalt not commit adultery!" are answered now by the thunders of laughter that greet the taking in adultery of false wives and husbands in milliners' many-doored rooms, or restaurants' cabinet particulier. Alas, that the time should come that this passion for the illicit should so dominate the stage!

One more delightful production at the Union Square Theatre I shared in, and then my regular company days were over.

The other day, in recalling to Mr. Palmer a long list of such successful productions of his as "Led Astray," "The Two Orphans," "Camille," "Miss Multon," "The Danicheffs," "The Celebrated Case," etc., he surprised me by emphatically declaring that the performance of "Miss Multon" came nearer to absolute perfection than had any other play he had ever produced; and to convince me of that, he simply brought forward the cast of the play to help prove the truth of his assertion. As we went over the characters one by one, I was compelled to admit that from the leading part to the smallest servant, I had never seen one of them quite equaled since. Mr. Palmer's pride in this production seemed the more odd at first, because of its slight demands upon the scenic-artist, the carpenter, and upholsterer. It needs just two interior scenes—a busy doctor's study in London and a morning-room in a French country-house—that's all. "But," he will enthusiastically cry, "think of that performance, recall those people," and so, presently, I will obey him and recall them every one.

The play had twice failed in Paris, which was, to say the least, discouraging. When it was read to me I thought the tremendous passion of maternity ought to touch the public heart—others there were, who said no, that sexual love alone could interest the public. Mr. Palmer thought the French play had needed a little brightening; then, too, he declared the people wanted to see the actual end of the heroine (one of Mr. Daly's fixed beliefs, by the way), therefore he had Mr. Cazauran write two additional short acts—a first, to introduce some brightness in the children's Christmas-tree party and some amusement in the old bachelor doctor and his old maid sister; and a last for the death of Miss Multon.

After brief reflection I concluded I would risk it, and then, just by way of encouragement, Mr. Cazauran, who had always been at pains to speak as kindly of my work as that work would allow, when he was critic on the different papers, declared that all my acquired skill and natural power of expressing emotion united would prove useless to me—that Miss Multon was to be my Waterloo, and to all anxious or surprised "whys?" sapiently made answer: "No children." His argument was, that not being a mother in reality, I could not be one in imagination.

Always lacking in self-confidence, those words made my heart sink physically, it seemed to me, as well as figuratively; but the ever-ready jest came bravely to the fore to hide my hurt from the public eye, and at next rehearsal I shook my head mournfully and remarked to the little man: "Bad—bad! Miss Cushman must be a very bad Lady Macbeth—I don't want to see her!"

"What?" he exclaimed, "Cushman not play Lady Macbeth—for heaven's sake, why not?"

"No murderess!" I declared, with an air of authority recognized by those about me as a fair copy of his own. "If Miss Cushman is not a murderess, pray how can she act Lady Macbeth—who is?" And the laugh that followed helped a little to scare away the bugaboo his words had raised in my mind.

Then, ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, the question of dress proved to be a snag, and there was any amount of backing and filling before we could get safely round it.

"What are you going to wear, Miss Morris?" asked Mr. Cazauran one day after rehearsal—and soon we were at it, and the air was thick with black, brown, gray, purple, red, and blue! I starting out with a gray traveling-dress, for a reason, and Mr. Cazauran instantly and without reason condemned it. He thought a rich purple would be about the thing. Mr. Palmer gave a small contemptuous "Humph"! and I cried out, aghast: "Purple? the color of royalty, of pomp, of power? A governess in a rich purple? Your head would twist clear round, hind side to, with amazement, if you saw a woman crossing from Calais to Dover attired in a royal purple traveling-suit."

Mr. Palmer said: "Nonsense, Cazauran; purple is not appropriate;" and then, "How would blue—dark blue or brown do?" he asked.

"For just a traveling-dress either one would answer perfectly," I answered; "but think of the character I am trying to build up. Why not let me have all the help my gown can give me? My hair is to be gray—white at temples; I have to wear a dress that requires no change in going at once to cars and boat. Now gray or drab is a perfect traveling-gown, but think, too, what it can express—gray hair, white face, gray dress without relief of trimming, does it not suggest the utterly flat, hopeless monotony of the life of a governess in London? Not hunger, not cold, but the very dust and ashes of life? Then, when the woman arrives at the home of her rival and tragedy is looming big on the horizon, I want to wear red."

"Good God!" exclaimed Cazauran; and really red was so utterly unworn at that time that I was forced to buy furniture covering, reps, in order to get the desired color, a few days later.

"Yes, red," I persisted. "Not too bright, not impudent scarlet, but a dull, rich shade that will give out a gleam when the light strikes it; that will have the force of a threat—a menacing color, that white collar, cuffs and black lace shoulder wrap will restrict to governess-like primness, until, with mantle torn aside, she stands a pillar of fire and fury. And at the last I want a night-dress and a loose robe over it of a hard light blue, that will throw up the ghastly pallor of the face. There—that's what I want to wear, and why I want to wear it."

Mr. Palmer decided that purple was impossible and black too conventional, while the proposed color-scheme of gray, red, and blue seemed reasonable and characteristic. And suddenly that little wretch, Cazauran, laughed as good-naturedly as possible and said he thought so, too, but it did no harm to talk things over, and so we got around that snag, only to see a second one looming up before us in the question of what was to kill Miss Multon.

I asked it: "Of what am I to die?"

"Die? how? Why, just die, that's all," replied Cazauran.

"But of what?" I persisted; "what kills me? Miss Multon at present dies simply that the author may get rid of her. I don't want to be laughed at. We are not in the days of 'Charlotte Temple'—we suffer, but we live. To die of a broken heart is to be guyed, unless there is an aneurism. Now what can Miss Multon die from? If I once know that, I'll find out the proper business for the scene."

"Perhaps you'd have some of the men carry knives," sneered Cazauran, "and then she could be stabbed?"

"Oh, no!" I answered; "knives are not necessary for the stabbing of a woman; a few sharp, envenomed words can do that nicely—but we are speaking of death, not wounds; from what is Miss Multon to die?"

Then Mr. Palmer made suggestions, and Miss Morris made suggestions, and Mr. Cazauran triumphantly wiped them out of existence. But at last Cazauran himself grudgingly remarked that consumption would do well enough, and Mr. Palmer and I, as with one vengeful voice, cried out, Camille! And Cazauran said some things like "Nom de Dieu!" or "Dieu de Dieu!" and I said: "Chassez à droite," but the little man was vexed and would not laugh.

Someone proposed a fever—but I raised the contagion question. Poison was thought of, but that would prevent the summoning of the children from Paris, by Dr. Osborne. We parted that day with the question unanswered.

At next rehearsal I still wondered how I was to die, hard or easy, rigid or limp, slow or quick. "Oh," I exclaimed, "I must know whether I am to die in a second or to begin in the first act." And in my own exaggerated, impatient words I found my first hint—"why not begin to die in the first act?"

When we again took up the question, I asked, eagerly: "What are those two collapses caused by—the one at the mirror, the other at the school-table with the children?"

"Extreme emotion," I was answered.

"Then," I asked, "why not extreme emotion acting upon a weak heart?"

Mr. Palmer was for the heart trouble from the first—he saw its possibilities, saw that it was new, comparatively speaking at least—I suppose nothing is really new—and decided in its favor; but for some reason the little man Cazauran was piqued, and the result was that he introduced just one single line, that could faintly indicate that Miss Multon was a victim of heart disease—in the first act, where, after a violent exclamation from the lady, Dr. Osborne said: "Oh, I thought it was your heart again," and on eight words of foundation I was expected to raise a superstructure of symptoms true enough to nature to be readily recognized as indicating heart disease; and yet oh, difficult task! that disease must not be allowed to obtrude itself into first place, nor must it be too poignantly expressed. In brief, we decided I was to show to the public a case of heart disease, ignored by its victim and only recognized among the characters about her by the doctor.

And verily my work was cut out for me. Why, when I went to the Doctors Seguin to be coached, I could not even locate my heart correctly by half a foot. Both father and son did all they could to teach me the full horror of angina pectoris, which I would, of course, tone down for artistic reasons. And to this day tears rise in my eyes when I recall the needless cruelty of the younger Seguin, in running a heart patient up a long flight of stairs, that I might see the gasping of the gray-white mouth for breath, the flare and strain of her waxy nostrils. Then, in remorseful generosity, though heaven knows her coming was no act of mine, I made her a little gift, and as she was slipping the bill inside her well-mended glove, her eye caught the number on its corner, and, she must have been very poor, her tormented and tormenting heart gave a plunge and sent a rush of blood into her face that made her very eyeballs pinken; and then again the clutching fingers, the flaring nostrils, the gasping for air, the pleading look, the frightened eyes! Oh, it is unforgettable! poor soul! poor soul!

Well, having my symptoms gathered together, they yet had to be sorted out, toned down, and adapted to this or that occasion. But at least the work had not been thrown away, for on the first night Dr. Fordyce Barker—a keen dramatic critic, by the way—occupied with a friend a private box. He had rescued me from the hands of the specialists in Paris, and I had at times been his patient. He applauded heartily after the first two acts, but looked rather worried. At the end of the third act a gentleman of his party turned and looked at him inquiringly. The doctor threw up his hands, while shaking his head disconsolately. The friend said: "Why, I'm surprised—I thought Miss Morris suffered from her spine?"

"So she does—so she does," nodded Dr. Barker.

"But," went on the friend, "this thing isn't spine—this looks like heart to me."

"I should say so," responded the doctor. "I knew she wasn't strong—just a thing of nerves and will—but I never saw a sign of heart trouble before. But it's here now, and it's bad; for, by Jove, she can't go through another attack like that and finish this play. Too bad, too bad!"

And his honest sympathy for my new affliction spoiled his evening right up to the point of discovery that it was all in the play. Then he enjoyed the laugh against himself almost as much as I enjoyed his recognition of my laboriously acquired symptoms.

And now for Mr. Palmer's beloved cast.

With what a mixture of pleasure and grief I recall Sara Jewett, the loveliest woman and the most perfect representative of a French lady of quality I have ever seen in the part of Mathilde.

Mr. James O'Neil's success in Maurice de la Tour was particularly agreeable to me, because I had earnestly called attention to him some time before he was finally summoned to New York. His fine work in Chicago, where I had first met him, had convinced me that he ought to be here, and that beautiful performance fully justified every claim I had made for him in the first place. The part is a difficult one. Some men rant in it, some are savagely cruel, some cold as stone. O'Neil's Maurice bore his wound with a patient dignity that made his one outbreak into hot passion tremendously effective, through force of contrast; while his sympathetic voice gave great value to the last tender words of pardon.

And that ancient couple—that never-to-be-forgotten pair, Mr. Stoddard and Mrs. Wilkins! The latter's husband, belonging to the English bar, had been Sergeant Wilkins, a witty, well-living, popular man, who quite adored his pretty young wife and lavished his entire income upon their ever-open house, so that his sudden taking off left her barely able to pay for a sea of crape—with not a pound left over for a life-preserver or raft of any kind. But on her return to the stage, her knowledge of social amenities, the dignity and aplomb acquired by the experienced hostess, remained with her, in a certain manner, an air of suave and gentle authority, that was invaluable to her in the performance of gentlewomen; while the good-fellowship, the downright jollity of her infectious laugh were the crown of her comedy work. Who can forget the Multon tea-table scene between Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Stoddard. How the audience used to laugh and laugh when, after his accusing snort: "More copperas!" he sat and glared at her pretty protesting face framed in its soft white curls. He was so ludicrously savage I had to coin a name for him; and one night when the house simply would not stop laughing, I remarked: "Oh, doesn't he look like a perfect old Sardonyx?"

"Yes-m!" quickly replied the property boy beside me; "yes-m, that's the very beast he reminds me of!"

Certainly, I never expect to find another Dr. Osborne so capable of contradicting a savage growl with a tender caress.

Mr. Parselle, as the gentle old Latin scholar, tutor, and acting godfather, was beyond praise. He admitted to me one night, coming out of a brown study, that he believed Bélin was a character actually beyond criticism, and that, next to creating it as author, he ranked the honor of acting it; but there spoke the old-school actor who respected his profession.

And those children—were they not charming? That Sister Jane, given so sweetly, so sincerely by the daughter of the famous Matilda Heron, who, christened Helène, was known only by the pet name Bijou, in public as well as in private life. And the boy Paul, her little brother. Almost, I believe, Mabel Leonard was herself created expressly to play that part. Never did female thing wear male clothes so happily. All the impish perversity, all the wriggling restlessness of the small boy were to be found in the person of the handsome, erratic, little Mabel.

Even the two maids were out of the common, one being played by a clever and very versatile actress, who had been a friend of my old Cleveland days. She came to me out of the laughing merry past, but all pale and sad in trailing black, for death had been robbing her most cruelly. She wished for a New York engagement and astonished me by declaring she would play anything, no matter how small, if only the part gave her a foothold on the New York stage.

I sought Mr. Palmer and talked hard and long for my friend, but he laughed and answered: "An actress as clever as that will be very apt to slight a part of only two scenes."

But I assured him to the contrary; that she would make the most of every line, and the part would be a stepping-stone to bigger things. He granted my prayer, and Louise Sylvester, by her earnestness, her breathless excitement in rushing to and fro, bearing messages, answering bells, and her excellent dancing, raised Kitty to a character part, while Louise, the smallest of them all, was played with a brisk and bright assurance that made it hard to believe that Helen Vincent had come direct from her convent school to the stage-door—as she had.

A great, great triumph for everyone was that first night of "Miss Multon," and one of the sweetest drops in my own cup was added by the hand of New York's honored and beloved poet, Edmund Clarence Stedman, for, all nested in a basket of sweet violets, came a sonnet from him to me, and though my unworthiness was evident enough, nevertheless I took keenest joy in the beauty of its every line—surely a very sweet and gracious token from one who was secure to one who was still struggling. And now, when years have passed, he has given me another beautiful memory to keep the first one company. I was taking my first steps in the new profession of letters, which seems somewhat uncertain, slow, and introspective, when compared with the swift, decisive, if rather superficial profession of acting, and Mr. Stedman, in a pause from his own giant labor on his great "Anthology," looked at, nay, actually considered, that shivering fledgling thing, my first book, and wrote a letter that spelled for me the word encouragement, and being a past-master in the art of subtle flattery, quoted from my own book and set alight a little flame of hope in my heart that is not extinguished yet. So gently kind remain some people who are great. Just as Tomasso Salvini, from the heights of his unquestioned supremacy—but stay, the line must be drawn somewhere. It would not be kind to go on until my publisher himself cried: "Halt!"

So I shall stop and lock away the pen and paper—lock them hard and fast, because so many charming, so many famous people came within my knowledge in the next few years that the temptation to gossip about them is hard to resist. But to those patient ones, who have listened to this story of a little maid's clamber upward toward the air and sunshine, that God meant for us all, I send greeting, as, between mother and husband, with the inevitable small dog on my knee, I prepare to lock the desk—I pause just to kiss my hands to you and say Au revoir!