Up-stairs I found a bare stage, as is often the case for a first mere reading of parts, and most of the company sitting on camp-stools, chatting and laughing. Already M. Bènot had announced the change in the cast, and people looked at me in perfect stupefaction: "Good heavens! what a risk he is taking! Who on earth is she, anyway?" and I cleared my throat in mercy to the speaker, who didn't know I stood behind her.

That morning I was introduced to a number of the ladies and gentlemen, but it was a mere baptism of water, not of the spirit. I was not one of them. Understand, no one was openly rude to me, everyone bowed a "good-morning," but, well, you can bow a good-morning over a large iron fence with a fast-locked gate in it. That my dresses of gray linen or of white linen struck them as being funny in September is not to be wondered at, yet they must have known that necessity forced me to wear them, and that their smiles were not always effaced quickly enough to spare me a cruel pang. And my amazement grew day by day at their own extravagance of dress. Some of the ladies wore a different costume each day during the entire rehearsal of the play. How, I wondered, could they do it? Two of them, Miss Kate Claxton and Miss Newton, had husbands to pay their bills, I found, and Miss Linda Dietz—the gentlest, most sweetly-courteous creature imaginable—had parents and a home; but the magnificence of the others remained an unsolvable mystery.

Another thing against me was, I could not act even the least bit at rehearsal. Foreign actors will act in cold blood at a daylight rehearsal, but few Americans can do it. I read my lines with intelligence, but gave no sign of what I intended to do at night. Of course that made Mr. Daly suffer great anxiety, but he said nothing, only looked at me with such troubled, anxious eyes that I felt sorry for him. One gentleman, however, decided that I was—not to put too fine a point upon it—"a lunk-head." He treated me with supercilious condescension, varied occasionally with overbearing tyranny. Just one person in the theatre knew that I was really a good actress, of considerable experience, and that was James Lewis; and from a tricksy spirit of mischief he kept the silence of a graven image, and when Mr. Dan Harkins took me aside to teach me to act, Lewis would retire to a quiet spot and writhe with suppressed laughter.

One day he said to me: "Say, you ain't cooking up a huge joke on these gas-balloons, are you, Clara? And upon my soul you are doing it well—you act as green as a cucumber."

And never did I succeed in convincing him that I had not engineered a great joke on the company by deceptive rehearsing. One tiny incident seemed to give Mr. Daly a touch of confidence in me. In the "Inn scene" a violent storm was raging, and at a critical moment the candle was supposed to be blown out by a gust of wind from the left door, as one of the characters entered. They were using a mechanical device for extinguishing the candle, and it was tried several times one morning, and always, to my surprise, from the right side of the stage. No one seemed to notice anything odd, though the flame streamed out good and long in the wrong direction before going out. At last I ventured, as I was the principal in the scene: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is it not the wind from the open door that blows that light out?"

Then, quick and sharp, mine enemy was upon me: "This is our affair, Miss Morris."

"Yes," I answered, "but the house will laugh if the candle goes out against the storm," and Mr. Daly sprang up, and, smiling his first kindly smile at me, said: "What the deuce have we all been thinking of—you're right, the candle must be extinguished from the left," and as I glanced across the stage I saw Lewis doing some neat little dancing steps all by himself.

The rehearsals were exhausting in the extreme, the heat was unnatural, the walk far too long, and, well, to be frank, I had not nearly enough to eat. My anxiety was growing hourly, my strength began to fail, and at the last rehearsals, white as wax from weakness, I had to be carried up the stairs to the stage. Having such a quick study, requiring but few rehearsals, I was from the fourth day ready at any moment to go on and play my part. Fancy, then, what a waste of strength there was in forcing me, day after day, to go over long, important scenes—three, five, even seven times of a morning for the benefit of one amateur actress, who simply could not remember to-day what she had been told yesterday. It was foolish, it was risking a breakdown, when they had no one to put in my place. Mr. William Davidge was the next greatest sufferer, and as an experienced old actor he hotly resented being called back to go over a scene, again and again, "that a 'walking vanity' might be taught her business at his expense!"

And though I liked and admired the "walking vanity" (who did not in the least deserve the name), I did think the manner of her training was costly and unjust, and one morning, just before the production of the play, I—luckily as it would seem—lost my self-control for a moment, and created a small sensation. In my individual case, fainting is always preceded by a moment of total darkness, and that again by a sound in my ears as of a rushing wind. That morning, as I finished the sixth repetition of Anne's big scene with Lady Glenarm, the warning whir was already in my ears, when the order came to go over it again, "that Mrs. Glenarm might be quite easy." It was too much—a sudden rage seized upon me: "Mrs. Glenarm will only be quite easy when the rest of us are dead!" I remarked as I took my place again, and when I received my cue I whirled upon her with the speech: "Take care, Mrs. Glenarm, I am not naturally a patient woman, trouble has done much to tame my temper, but endurance has its limits!"

It was given with such savage passion that Miss Dietz burst into frightened tears and forgot utterly her lines, while a silence that thrilled, absolute, dead, came upon the company for a moment. Hastily I controlled myself, but there were whispers and amazed looks everywhere. Mr. George Brown, who played the pugilist, said aloud to a group: "She's done the whole crowd—she's an actress to the core!"

Mr. Daly sat leaning forward at the prompt-table, white as he could well be. His eyes were wide and bright, and, to my surprise, he spoke quite gently to me as he said: "Spare yourself—just murmur your lines, Miss Morris." And Miss Dietz said: "Oh, Mr. Daly, I am so glad I am prepared; I should have fallen in my tracks if she had done that to me at night, without warning."

When I left the stage, one of the ladies swept her dress aside, and said: "Sit here by me; how tired you must be!" It was the first friendly advance made to me. Before rehearsal ended I overheard the young man with the bald head saying: "She has sold us all, and I bet she will completely change the map of the Fifth Avenue Theatre."

"Oh, no, she won't," answered Lewis, shortly, "she's not that type of woman!"

"Well, at all events, on the strength of that outburst, I ain't afraid to bet twenty good dollars that she makes pie out of Ethel's vogue!" Then, seeing me, he removed his hat hurriedly, offering his shoulder for me to lean upon as I descended the winding-stairs, and I said to myself: "Yesterday this would have been a kindly service; to-day—to-day it is not far from an humiliation."

Hitherto I had known neither clique nor cabal in a theatre; now I found myself in a network of them. The favorite—who, I had supposed, lived only in the historic novel—I now met in real life, and found her as charming, as treacherous, and as troublesome in the theatre as she could ever have been in a royal court. There was no one to explain to me the nature or progress of the game that was being played when I came upon the scene; but I soon discovered there were two factions in the theatre, Miss Agnes Ethel heading one, Miss Fanny Davenport the other. Each had a following, but Miss Ethel, who had been all-powerful, had overestimated her strength when she refused, point-blank, to play Anne Sylvester, giving as her reason "the immorality of Anne." This from the lady who had been acting all season in "Fernande" and "Frou-Frou"—as a gambler's decoy and an adulterous wife abandoning child and home—satisfactorily proved the utter absence of a sense of humor from her charming make-up.

Mr. Daly, like every other man, could be managed with a little patient finesse, but he would not be bullied in business affairs by any living creature, as he proved when, rather than change the play to please the actress he then regarded as his strongest card, he trusted a great part to the hands of an unknown, untried girl, and gave out to the newspapers that Miss Ethel had sprained her ankle, and, though in perfect health, could not walk well enough to act. And, after my momentary outburst, the anti-Ethelites suddenly placed me on one of the sixty-four squares of their chess-board; but I knew not whether I was castle, knight, bishop, or pawn, I only knew that I had become a piece of value in their game, and they hoped to move me against Ethel.

It was all very bewildering, but I had other things to think about, and more important. My money had run so low I was desperately afraid I could not get dresses for the play, and for the white mousseline necessary for the croquet-party of the first act I was forced to go to a very cheap department store, a fact the dress nightly proclaimed aloud from every inch of its surface. Shawl dresses were the novelty of that season, and at Stewart's I found a modestly priced dark-gray shawl overskirt and jacket that I could wear over a black alpaca skirt for two acts. The other two dresses I luckily had in my wardrobe, and when my new shoes, a long gray veil, and two pairs of gray gloves were laid into the dressing-room basket, I had in the whole world $2.38, on which we had to live until my first week's salary came to me. But, oh, that last awful day before the opening night. I was suffering bodily as well as mentally. I had had an alarming attack of pleurisy. My mother had rung the bell and left a message at the first house that carried a doctor's sign. He came; he was far gone in liquor; he was obstinate, almost abusive—to be brief, he blistered me shockingly; another doctor had to be called to dress and treat the hideous blisters the first had produced; and the tight closing of dress-waists about me was an agony not yet forgotten. But what was that to the nervous terror, the icy chill, the burning fever, the deadly nausea! I could not swallow food—I could not! My mother stood over me while, with tear-filled eyes, I disposed of a raw, beaten egg, and then she was guilty of the dreadful extravagance of buying two chops, of which she made a cup of broth, and fearing a breakdown if I attempted without food five such acts as awaited me, she almost forced me to swallow it to the last drop after my hat was on and I was ready to start. I always kiss my mother good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff with fright that they would not move. I dropped my head for a moment upon her shoulder, she patted me silently with one hand and opened the door with the other. My little dog, escaping from the room, rushed to me, leaping against my knees. I caught her up, and she covered my troubled, veiled face with frantic kisses. I passed her to mother and crept painfully down the steps. I glanced back—mother waved her hand and innocently called: "Good luck! God bless you!"

The astonishing conjunction of superstition and orthodox faith touched my sense of the ridiculous. I laughed aloud, Bertie barked excitedly, I faced about and went forward almost gayly to meet—what? As I reached Broadway, I remember quite distinctly that I said aloud, to myself: "Well, God's good to the Irish, and at all events I was born on St. Patrick's day—so Garryowen forever!"

The pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, I was in high spirits; nor need you be surprised, for such is the acting temperament.

I had not on that first night even the comfort of a dressing-room to myself, but shared one of the tiniest closets with Mrs. Roberta Norwood, in whose chic blonde person I failed utterly to see a future friend. The terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, all brought back the memory of that far-away first night of all in Cleveland; but now there was no Mrs. Bradshaw to go to for advice or commendation. The sense of utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and I bent my head low over the buckling of my shoe that my rising tears might not be noticed.

We were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, and every seat flung down by the ushers seemed to strike a blow upon our heads, while applause shook dust into our eyes and hair. Forced occupation is the best cure for nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dressing I for the time forgot my fright. Two or three persons had come to the door to speak to Mrs. Norwood, and it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. I looked at myself in the glass, I hesitated, at last I turned and asked if I wore too much color—if I was too red, and the answer I received was: "That's a matter of taste."

Now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of business. She was familiar with the size and the lighting of the theatre, and I was not, yet either from extreme self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed me to go upon that tiny stage painted like an Indian about to take the war-path. Truly I was climbing up a thorny stem to reach the flower of success.

The overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing to the stairs for the first act. I stopped behind the dressing-room door and bent my head for one dumbly pleading moment, then muttering "Amen—amen," I, too, hurried up the stairs to face the awful first appearance before a New York audience.

I had always been rehearsed to enter with the crowd of guests. The cue came, and as I stepped forward, a strong hand caught my arm. Mr. Daly had suddenly changed his mind, he held me fast till all were on, then let me go, whispering, "Now—now," and I went on alone.

I had to retire to the back of the stage and wait a few moments till spoken to. Never shall I forget the sort of horror the closeness of the audience caused me, I felt I should step upon the upturned faces; I wanted to put out my hands and push the people back, and their use of opera-glasses filled my eyes with angry tears. Suddenly I understood the meaning of the lightly painted faces. I raised my handkerchief and wiped some of the red from my cheeks, while somewhat bitterly, I am afraid, I thought that "love ye one another" and "thy neighbor as thyself" had been relegated to the garret with "God bless our home."

Then the astonishing beauty of the women on the stage struck me with dismay; their exquisite lacy dresses, their jewel-loaded fingers. Oh! I thought, how can I ever hope to stand with them. I grew sick and cold. Then there dully reached my ears the words of Lady Lundy: "I choose—Anne Sylvester." It was my cue. I came slowly down; no one knew me, no one greeted me. I opened my lips, but no sound came. I saw a frightened look on Miss Newton's face; I tried again, and in a husky whisper, answered: "Thank you; I'd rather not play."

Out in front one actor friend, John W. Norton, watched and prayed for a success for me; when he heard the hoarse murmur, he dropped his head and groaned: "A failure—total and complete!" But I also had noted that hoarse croak, and it had acted like a mighty spur. I was made desperate by it. I threw up my head, and answered my next cue with: "No, Lady Lundy, nothing is the matter; I am not very well, but I will play if you wish it."

I gave the words so bell-clear and with so much insolent humility that a round of applause of lightning quickness followed them. It was the first bit of genuine hearty kindness I had received in the city of New York. In my pleasure I forgot the character of Anne completely, and turned to the audience a face every feature of which, from wide, surprised eyes to more widely-smiling lips, radiated such satisfaction and good-fellowship that they first laughed aloud and then a second time applauded.

At last! I was starting fair, we had shaken hands, my audience and I; my nerves were steady, my heart strong, the "part" good. I would try hard, I would do my best. I made my whispered appointment to meet Geoffrey, and when I returned and stood a moment, silently watching him, there came upon the house the silence that my soul loves—the silence that might thrill a graven image into acting, and I was not stone.

Our scene began. Anne, striving desperately to restrain her feelings, said: "You are rich, a scholar, and a gentleman; are you something else besides all these—are you a coward and a villain, sir?"

Clear and distinct from the right box, in suppressed tones, came the words: "Larmes de la voix! larmes de la voix!" Many glanced at the box, a few hissed impatiently at the new mayor, Oakey Hall, who had spoken. Our interview was interrupted by Lady Lundy (Miss Newton) and Sir Patrick Lundy (Mr. Lewis). I was dismissed by the first and left the stage. Applause broke forth—continued. Mr. Lewis and Miss Newton began to speak—the applause redoubled. I turned angrily. "What bad manners!" I said. Mr. Daly ran up to me, waving his hands: "Go on! go on! It's you, you fool!"

"I know it," I replied, "but I'm not going to insult any actor by taking a call in the middle of his scene."

"Confound you!" he said, "will you do as I tell you?" He caught me, whirled me about and, putting his hand between my shoulders, literally pitched me on to the stage, where I stood ashamed and mortified by what I honestly felt to be a slight to those two waiting to proceed.

After that the evening's triumph, like the rolling snowball, grew as it advanced. At the end of the quarrel act with Mrs. Glenarm the curtain was raised on the stage picture—once, twice, three times. Then M. Bènot said to Mr. Daly: "They want her," and Mr. Daly answered, sharply: "I know what they want, and I know what I don't want—ring up again!"

He did so; no use, the applause went on. Then Mr. Daly said to me: "Take Mrs. Glenarm on with you, and acknowledge this call."

We went on together; retired; more applause. Again we went on together; no use, the applause would not stop. "Oh, well, ring up once more," said Mr. Daly, "and here, you, take it yourself."

I went on alone, and the audience rose as one individual. I saw them, all blurred through happy tears. I held my hands out to them, with a very passion of love. The house blossomed with white waving handkerchiefs in answer. The curtain fell and, before I moved, rose once more, and then, as I live by bread! I saw pass between me and those applauding people a little crying child carrying a single potato in her hand. Of course that was nerves; but I saw her, I tell you I saw her! and surely I should know myself!

In the fourth act, which was a triumph for all concerned in it—and that meant nearly everyone in the cast—I received a compliment that I prize still. There is a certain tone which should be reserved for short important speeches only in strong and exciting scenes, where, by force of contrast, it has a great effect; so, in tones low, level, clear and cold as ice, Anne had scarcely taken her solemn oath: "I swear it, on my honor as a Christian woman, sir!" when from end to end of their railed-in semicircle the musicians broke into swift applause. Catching the effect, their foreign impetuosity made them respond more quickly than could the Americans who seconded their action, while mere recognition from these play-worn, blasé men was to me veritable incense. In the last act, Mrs. Gilbert, as Hester Detheridge, the supposed dumb woman, proved herself an artist to the fingertips. Later I saw many Hesters, but never one to equal hers.

At last, and late, far too late, the play ended in a blaze of glory. The curtain was raised for final compliments. All the actors in the play had been summoned—we all stood in line, a bowing, smiling, happy line—facing a shouting, hat, handkerchief, or cane-waving crowd of pleased, excited people. As I saw how many eyes were turned my way, with a leap of the heart I repeated: "If you make a favorable impression I will—yes, I will double that salary."

Surely, I thought, no one can doubt that I have made a favorable impression, and, oh, mother, we will be so happy! Just then I caught the eye of a young girl—I could have touched her outstretched hand, she was so close—she gave me a lovely smile, and taking from her bosom a bunch of scarlet carnations she threw them herself. They fell on the stage. One of the actors picked them up and, turning, handed them to Blanche. I heard the disappointed "Oh!" and caught her eye again, when, regardless of all the rules and regulations forbidding communication with the audience, I smiled and kissed my hand to her. As the curtain fell, in an instant everyone was talking with everyone else. I had begun alone—well, I must end alone. I slipped down the staircase least used, and at its foot met Mr. George Brown, who was waiting for me. He took my hands in his and gave me both commendation and congratulation, though they were stayed and braced with unconscious profanity; and I squeezed his hands hard and said: "You are so good, oh! you are so good! but please take care, I'm afraid you'll get forfeited." When he cried: "D——n the forfeit, it's worth a few dollars to speak as you feel sometimes, so good-night!"

I scrambled into my street-clothes, caught up the inevitable bag, and fairly rushed from the theatre, and as I came up from that place of mouldy smell and burnt-out air, and lifted my face to the stupendous beauty of the heavens, sniffing delightedly at the cool, pure night air, suddenly I thought how delicious must have been the first long breath young Lazarus drew when, obeying the Divine command, he "came forth" from the tomb.

Tired, excited, I hurried to carry the news to the two who awaited me—my mother and my dog. At the corner of Twenty-third Street and Broadway I had to pass around a party of ladies and gentlemen who stood talking there, and a lady said as I passed: "No, no! it's Morris, I tell you; see, here it is—Clara Morris." She held up a folded programme, pointing out the name to a gentleman beside her. I laughed happily. Odd bits of the evening's happenings kept appearing before me like pictures. Sometimes I saw the unknown young girl's smiling face—and the scarlet flowers I failed to receive. Sometimes 'twas Mr. Daly's angry one as he pitched me on to the stage to acknowledge a compliment I did not want, great as it was. Most often I saw the faces of the lovely women of the company. What a galaxy of beauty they made! The stately Newton, the already full-blown, buxom Davenport, the tall, slender, deer-eyed Dietz, the oriental Volmer, the auburn-haired Claxton, the blond Norwood! There were just two women in that company who were not beauties—Mrs. Gilbert and Miss Morris; even they were wholesome, pleasant women, who did not frighten horses by any means, but still if you speak of beauty—why, next! please!

At last I saw the lighted windows that told me home was near. Then up the stairs, where there bounded upon my breast the little black-and-tan bundle of love and devotion, called Bertie the loyal, whose fervid greetings made the removal of my hat so difficult a job that it was through the tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling dog I cried at last: "It's all right, Mumsey—a success! Lots and lots of 'calls,' dear! and, oh! is there anything to eat—I am so hungry!"

So, while the new actress's name was floating over many a dainty restaurant supper, its owner sat beneath one gas-jet, between mother and pet, eating a large piece of bread and a small piece of cheese; and, thankful for both, she talked to her small circle of admirers, telling them all about it, and winding up supper and talk with the declaration: "Mother, I believe the hearts are just the same, whether they beat against Western ribs or Eastern ribs!"

Then, supper over, I stumbled through my old-time "Now I lay me," and adding some blurred words of gratitude (God must be so well used to sleep thanks, but very wide-awake entreaties!) I fell asleep, knowing that through God's mercy and my own hard work I was the first Western actress who had ever been accepted by a New York audience, and as I drowsed off, I murmured to myself: "And I'll leave the door open, now that I have opened it—I'll leave it open for all others."

The following morning we were called to the theatre at eleven o'clock to have the play cut "judiciously," as old actors used to say. It was very loosely constructed, and, besides cutting, the entire drama required a tightening-up, as it were.

Mr. Daly was the first to greet me and offer hearty and genial congratulations. Everyone followed his example, and that morning I was admitted into the family circle and came into my just inheritance of equality and fraternity.

A little surprised, but very happy, I gave back smile for smile, hand-pressure for hand-pressure; for being held off at arm's length by them all had hurt worse I'm sure than they knew, therefore when they offered me kindly greeting I did not stop to study out the cause of this effect, but shut my eyes and opened my mouth, and took what luck had sent me, and thankfully became so much one of them that I never had a clashing word with a member of the company—never saw the faintest cloud darken our good-fellowship.

That morning, as the cutting was going on, I advanced and offered my part, but Mr. Daly waved me away. "No," he said, "there's plenty of useless matter to take out, but the public won't want Anne cut, they have none too much of her now."

He gave but few compliments, even to those he liked, and he did not like me yet, therefore that gracious speech created a sensation among the other hearers and was carefully treasured up by me.

Another of his sayings of that morning I recall. In conversation with one of the ladies, I remarked: "As a Western woman, I suppose I have various expressions to unlearn?" when Mr. Daly turned quickly from the prompt-table, saying, sharply: "Miss Morris, don't say that again. You are a New York woman now—please remember that. You ceased to be a Westerner last night when you received the New York stamp."

I thought him jesting, and was about to make some flippant reply, when one of the ladies squeezed my arm and said: "Don't, he will be angry; he is in earnest."

And he was, just as he was in earnest later on when we had become good friends, and I heard him for the first time swear like a trooper because I had been born in Canada. And when I laughed at his anger, he was not far from boxing my ears.

"It's a damn shame!" he declared; "in the first place you are an American to the very marrow of your bones. In the next place you are the only woman I know who has a living, pulsing love of country and flag! Oh, the devil! I won't believe it—you born in a tu'penny ha'penny little Canadian town under that infernal British flag! See here, if you ever tell anyone that—I'll—I'll never forgive you! Have you been telling that to people?"

I answered him: "I have not—but I have permitted the assertion that I was born in Cleveland to go uncorrected," and, with the sweet frankness of friendship, he answered that I had more sense than he had given me credit for. But, small matter that it was, it annoyed him greatly, and I still have notes of his, sent on my birthdays, in which he petulantly refers to my unfortunate birth-place, and warns me to keep silent about it.

Like many other great men—and Mr. Daly was a great man—he often made mountains out of mole-hills, devoting to some trifle an amount of consideration out of all proportion to the thing considered.

On the first night of the season Mr. Daly had said to me: "One word, Miss Morris, that I had forgotten before—Mr. James Fisk, unfortunately, as landlord, has the right of entrance into the green-room. He doesn't often appear there, but should he come in, if you are present I desire you should instantly withdraw. I do not wish you to be introduced to him under any circumstances."

I felt my face flushing red as I answered: "I have no desire to meet either Mr. Fisk or any other gentleman in the green-room!" But Mr. Daly said, hurriedly: "Don't misunderstand me, there's no time for explanations now, only do as I ask you. You will recognize him when I tell you he is very blond and very like his pictures," and away flew Mr. Daly to attend to things enough to drive most men crazy.

Now, that speech did not mean that Mr. Fisk was a monster of ill-breeding or of immorality, but it did mean that that was Mr. Daly's "tat" to Mr. Fisk's "tit" in a very pretty little "tit-for-tat" quarrel between them.

Mr. Daly very seldom tasted defeat—very, very seldom came out second best in an encounter; but there had been a struggle anent the renting of the theatre: Mr. Fisk, as landlord, refusing to renounce his right of entrance by the stage-door to any theatre he owned—nothing could move him, no argument, no entreaty, no threat; not even an offer of more rent than he himself asked. To Mr. Daly the right of entrance of an outsider back of the stage was almost unbearable, even though the privilege was seldom used and never abused. He declared he would not sign any agreement holding such a clause. He gave up the theatre rather than yield, and then, with a large company already engaged, he sought in vain for a house to shelter it. Now, the city is broken out all over, close and fine, with theatres, like a case of well-developed measles; but then 'twas different. Mr. Daly could find no other theatre, and he was compelled to accept the Fifth Avenue with the hated clause compromised thus: Mr. Fisk was to have the right of entrance to the green-room, but was never to go upon the stage or behind the scenes; an ending to the struggle that pleased the company mightily, for they were all very fond of Jimmy Fisk, or "The Prince," as he was called.

He never forgot them on benefit nights; whether the beneficiary was man or woman there was always a gift ready from the "Railroad Prince."

He looked like a man well acquainted with his tub. His yellow hair crisped itself into small waves right from its very roots. His blue eyes danced with fun, for he was one of nature's comedians. His manner was what he himself would describe as "chipper." No one could talk five minutes with him without being moved to laughter.

His own box was the right upper one, and as I first had him pointed out to me, yellow-haired, laughing, flashing now and then a splendid ring, I wondered if he really was the stalking-horse of the dark little man with the piercing eyes who sat for one act well back of the redundant and diffuse Mr. James Fisk. Wishing to make sure of the dark man's identity, I asked who he was. "Oh," was the answer, "he's gone now, but I suppose it was Gould, rooting out the 'Prince' to talk shop to him!" then, thrusting out a contemptuous under-lip, my informant added: "He's no good—he has nothing to do with the theatre! Scarcely ever comes to a performance, and doesn't see anything when he does. He couldn't tell any one of us apart from the others if he tried—and he's not likely to try. You want to keep your eye on Jimmie. If he likes you, you're in for flowers and a present, too, on your benefit!"

Imagine, then, my amazement on the third night of the season when this occurred: In one act I made my exit before the curtain fell—all the other characters being still upon the stage. Having a change of dress there, I always hurried down-stairs as quickly as possible, and passing in one door and out of the other, crossed the green-room to reach my dressing-room. That evening as I ran in I saw a gentleman standing near the opposite door. I turned instantly to retreat, when a voice called: "If you please." I paused, I turned. The gentleman removed his hat, and coming to the centre of the room held out his hand, saying: "Miss Morris—you are Miss Morris?"

I smiled assent and gave him my hand. His small, smooth fingers closed upon mine firmly. We stood and looked at each other. He was small, and dark of hair and of beard, and his piercing eyes seemed to be reading me through and through. He spoke presently, in a voice low and gentle—almost to sadness.

"I wanted to speak to you," he said; "I'm not going to waste time telling you you are a wonderful actress, because the papers have already done that, and all New York will do it, but I see you are an honest girl and alone here——"

"No—oh, no!" I broke in, "my mother, too, is here!"

A faint smile seemed to creep about his bearded lips, there was a distinct touch of amusement in his voice as he said: "I-n-d-e-e-d! a valiant pair, no doubt—a truly valiant pair! but," his small fingers closed with surprising strength about mine in emphasis of his words, "but, oh, my honest little woman, you are going to see trouble here!" He glanced down at the hateful cheap dress I wore, he touched it with the brim of his hat: "Yes, you will have sore trouble on this score, to say nothing of other things; but don't let them beat you! When your back is to the wall, don't give up! but at a last pinch turn to me, Clara Morris, and if I don't know how to help you out, I know somebody who will! She——"

Steps, running steps, were coming down the passageway, then tall, dead-white with anger, Mr. Daly stood in the doorway. He almost gasped the words: "What does this mean, sir?" then angrily to me: "Leave the room at once!"

Flushing at the tone, I bent my head and moved toward the door, when, calm and clear, came the words: "Good-night, Miss Morris, please remember!"

Mr. Daly seemed beside himself with anger. "Mr. Gould," he cried (my heart gave a jump at the name; to save my life I could not help glancing back at them), "how dare you pass the stage-door? You have no more right here than has any other stranger! Your conduct, sir——"

The gray, blazing eyes of the speaker were met by Mr. Gould's, calm, cold, hard as steel, and his voice, low and level, was saying: "We will not discuss my conduct here, if you please—your office perhaps," as I fled down the entry to my own room.

Mr. Daly sent for me at the end of the play to demand my story of the unexpected meeting. Had I received any note, any message beforehand? Had we any common acquaintance? What had he said to me—word for word, what had he said?

I thought of the gentle voice, the piercing eyes that had grown so kind, the friendly promise, and somehow I felt it would be scoffed at—I rebelled. I would only generalize. He had called me an honest girl, had said the city praised me; but when I got home I told my mother all, who was greatly surprised, since she had had only the newspaper Gould in her mind—a sort of human spider, who wove webs—strong webs—that caught and held his fellow-men.

His words came true. I saw trouble of many kinds and colors. More than once I thought of his promise, but I had learned much ill of human nature in a limited time, and I was afraid of everyone. Knowing much of poor human nature now, and looking back to that evening, recalling every tone, every shade of expression, I am forced to believe Mr. Jay Gould was perfectly honest and sincere in his offer of assistance.

If this incident seems utterly incredible at first, it is because you are thinking of Mr. Gould wholly in his character of "The Wizard of Wall Street;" but turn to the domestic side of the man, think of his undying love for, his unbroken loyalty and devotion to, the wife of his choice, who, as mother of his little flock, never ceased to be his sweetheart.

Is it so improbable, then, that his heart, made tender by love for one dear woman, sheltered and protected, might feel a throb of pity for another woman, unsheltered and alone, whose poverty he saw would be a cruel stumbling-block in her narrow path? I think not.

Who that "she" was whose aid he would have asked in my behalf I do not know, can never know; but it always gives me an almost childish pleasure to imagine it was the sweet, strong woman who was his wife. At all events, Mr. Gould that night furnished me with a pleasant memory, and that is a thing to be thankful for.

The first time I saw Mr. Fisk in the green-room he was surrounded by a smiling, animated party, and as he advanced a step, expectantly, I disappeared. I have been told that he laughed at his own disappointment and the suddenness of some claim upon my attention. The second time, I was in the room when he entered, and at my swift departure he reddened visibly, and, after a moment, said: "If you were not all such good friends of mine, I should think someone had been making a bugaboo of me to scare that young woman."

"Oh," laughed one of the men, "she's from the West and is a bit wild yet."

"Well," he replied, "it doesn't matter where she's from, New York's got her now and means to keep her. I'd like to offer her a word of welcome and congratulation, but she won't give a chap any margin," and he resumed his conversation.

The third time, he was alone in the room, and as I backed hastily out he followed me. I ran—so did he—but as that was too ridiculous I stopped at his call and, turning, faced him. He removed his hat and hurriedly said: "I beg your pardon for forcing myself upon your attention, Miss Morris, but any man with a grain of self-respect would demand an explanation of such treatment as I have received from you. Come now, you are a brave girl, an honest girl—tell me, please, why you avoid me as if I were the plague. Why, good Lord! your eyes are all but jumping out of your head! Are you afraid even to be seen listening to me?" Suddenly he stopped, his own words had given him an idea. His eyes snapped angrily. "Well, I'll be blessed!" he exclaimed; then he came closer. He took my hand and asked: "Miss Morris, have you been putting these slights on me by order?"

I was confused, I was frightened; I remembered the anger Mr. Gould's presence had aroused, and this was an actual breech of orders. I stammered: "I—oh, I just happened to be busy, you know."

I glanced anxiously about me; he replied: "Yes, you were very busy to-night, sitting in the green-room doing nothing—yet you ran as if I were a leper. Tell me, little woman—don't be afraid—have you been obeying an order?"

"If you please—if you please!" was all I could say.

He looked steadily at me, lifted my hand to his lips, and said, with a compassionate sigh: "Bread and butter comes high in New York, doesn't it, child? There, I won't worry you any longer, but Brother Daly and I will hold a little love-feast over this matter." And with a laugh he returned to the green-room, where I could hear him singing "Lucy Long" to himself.

A fortnight later, finding him again surrounded by the company, he laughingly called out to me: "Don't run away, the embargo is raised. It won't cost you a cent to shake hands and be friendly!" And as I seated myself in the place he made beside him, he added, low: "And no advantage taken of it outside the theatre."

He used so many queer, old-fashioned words, such as "chipper," "tuckered," "I swan!" "mean tyke," etc., that I once said to him: "I'm afraid you have washed your face in a pail by the pump ere this, Mr. Fisk?"

He laughed, and responded: "I'm afraid I used to be sent back to do it better, when I had first to break the ice to get to the water in the pail, Miss Guesswell!"

And then he gave a funny imitation of a boy washing his face in icy water, by wetting his fingers and drawing a circle about each eye and his mouth. He called his wife Lucy. Heaven knows whether it really was her name, but he always referred to her as Lucy. He was very fond of her, in spite of appearances, and proud of her, too. He said to me once: "She is no hair-lifting beauty, my Lucy, just a plump, wholesome, big-hearted, commonplace woman, such as a man meets once in a lifetime, say, and then gathers her into the first church he comes to, and seals her to himself. For you see these commonplace women, like common-sense, are apt to become valuable as time goes on!"

When anyone praised some wife, he would look up and say: "Wife—whose wife? What wife? Bring your wives along, I ain't afraid to measure my Lucy with 'em. For, look here, you mustn't judge Lucy by her James!"

A divorce case was before the courts, and it was much discussed everywhere. The wife had been jealous and suspicious, and blond hairs (she was very dark herself) and strange hair-pins held a ludicrous prominence in the evidence. "Ah!" said Fisk, "that's not the kind of a wife I have! Never, never does Lucy surprise me with a visit, God bless her! No, she always telegraphs me when she's coming, and I—I clear up and have a warm welcome for her, and then she's pleased, and that pleases me, and we both enjoy our visit. Hang'd if we don't! And just to show you what a hero—yes, a hero—she is, and, talking of hair-pins, let me tell you now. You know those confounded crooked ones, with three infernal crinkles in the middle to keep them from falling out of the hair? Those English chorus-girls wear them, I'm told. Well, one day Lucy comes to see me. Oh, she had sent word as usual, and everything was cleared up (I supposed) as usual, and George, my man, was laying out some clothes for me, when Lucy, smoothing her hand over the sofa-cushion, picks up and holds to the light an infernal crinkled hair-pin. George turned white and looked pleadingly at me. I saw myself in court fighting a divorce like the devil; and then, after an awful, perspiring silence, my Lucy says—she that has worn straight pins all her life: 'James, that is a lazy and careless woman that cares for your rooms. It's three weeks to-day since I left for home, and here is one of my hair-pins lying on the sofa ever since!'

"If she had put it in her hair I should have thought her really deceived in the matter, but when she dropped it in the fire, I knew she was just a plain hero! I walked over and knelt down and said: 'Thank you, Lucy,' while I pretended to tie her shoe. George was so upset that he dropped the studs twice over he was trying to put into a shirt-front. Oh, I tell you my Lucy can't be beat!"

The time he won the name of "Jubilee Jim," when the whole country was laughing over his triumphant visit to Boston with his regiment, he made this unsmiling explanation of the matter:

"You see, the Ninth and I were both tickled over the invitation to visit Boston, and as there were so many of us I paid the expenses myself. Being proud of the regiment and anxious it should be acquainted with all real American institutions, I arranged for it to stay over Sunday, for there were dozens of the boys who had never even seen a slice of real Boston brown-bread or a crock-baked bean—and a Boston Sunday breakfast was to be the educational feature of the visit. Everything was lovely, until the Ninth suddenly felt a desire to pray, as well as to eat, and I'll be switched on to a side-track if the minister of that big church didn't begin to kick like a steer, and finally refuse to let us pray in his shop. Now, if there's anything that will make a man hot as blazes in a minute, it's choking him off when he wants to pray. Some sharply pointed and peppery words were exchanged on the subject. I suppose our numbers rather muddled up his schedule, but if he'd said so quietly I could have straightened out his heavenly time-table so that there would have been no collision between trains of prayer. But no, instead of that, he slams the doors of his church in our visiting faces, and, in act at least, tells us to go to—what's that polite word now that means h—? What—what do you call it sheol? Shucks! that word won't become popular—hasn't got any snap to it! Well, the boys were mighty blue, they thought the visit was off. But I got 'em into the armory, and I said, what amounted to this, I says: 'This visit ain't off; Boston is right as a trivet, and wants us! We ain't bucking against the city, but against that sanctified stingyike who don't want anyone in heaven but his own gang; but you see here, when the Ninth Regiment wants to pray, I'm d——d if it don't do it. Who cares for that church, anyway, where you'd be crowded like sardines and have your corns crushed to agony! We'll go to Boston, boys, and we'll praise the Lord on the Common, if they'll let us, and if they won't, we'll march out to the suburbs and have a perfect jubilee of prayer!' And what do you think," he cried, grinning like a mischievous boy, as he twisted the long, waxed ends of his mustache to needle-like points, "what do you think—we prayed out of doors, with all female Boston and her attendants looking on and saying amen; and, oh, by George! I sent a man to see, and 'stingyike's' church was nearly empty! Ha! ha! I tell you what it is, when a New York soldier wants to pray, he prays, or something gives!" After that he was Jubilee Jim.

His growing stoutness annoyed him greatly, yet he was the first to poke fun at what he called his "unmilitary figure." One evening I said: "Mr. Fisk, I'm afraid you have cast too much bread upon the waters; it's said to be very fattening food when it returns?"

"Well, I swan!" he answered, "I'll never give another widow a pass over any road of mine—whether she's black, mixed, or grass, for that's about all the breadcasting I do."

This was not true, for he was very kind-hearted and generous, especially to working people who were in trouble. His "black widow" was one in full mourning, his "mixed widow" was the poor soul who had only a cheap black bonnet or a scanty veil topping her ordinary colored clothing to express her widowed state, while the "grasses" were, in his own words: "All those women who were not married—but ought to be."

Whenever he gave a diamond or an India shawl to a French opera-bouffe singer the world heard of it, and the value grew and grew daily, and that publicity gratified his strange distorted vanity, but the lines of widows, sometimes with hungry little flocks hanging at their skirts, that he passed over roads, the discharged men he "sneaked" (his own word) back into positions again, because of their suffering brood, he kept silent about.

He never got angry at the papers, no matter what absurdity they printed about him. At the time of the riot some paper declared he had left his men and had climbed a high board fence in order to escape from danger. In referring to the article at the theatre one evening, he said, in reproachful tones: "Now wasn't that a truly stupid lie?" He rose, and placing his hands where his waist should have been, he went on mournfully: "Look at me! I look like a sprinter, don't I? If you just could see me getting into that uniform—no offence, ladies, I don't mean no harm. Oh, Lord, who has a small grammar about them? Well, when I'm in the clothes, it takes two men's best efforts, while I hold my breath, to clasp my belt—and they say I climbed that high fence! Say, I'd give five thousand dollars down on the nail if I had the waist to do that act with!"

He was not only a natural comedian, but he had an instinct for the dramatic in real life, and he was quick to grasp his opportunity at the burning of Chicago. His relief train must be rushed through first—he must beg personally; and then—and then, oh, happy thought! all the city knew the value he placed upon the beautiful jet black stallion he rode in the Park. Out, then, he and his stall-mate came—splendid, fiery, satin-coated aristocrats! And taking their places before a great express wagon, went prancing and curvetting their way from door to door, Mr. Fisk stopping wherever a beckoning hand appeared at a window. And bundles of clothing, boxes of provisions, anything, everything that people would give, he gathered up with wild haste, and brief, warm thanks, and rushed to the express offices for proper sorting and packing. Of course that personal service was not really necessary. A modest man would not have done it, but he was spectacular. His act pleased the people, too, and really many were moved to give by it. Their fancy was caught by the picture of the be-diamonded Jubilee Jim placing himself and his valuable horses at the service of the terror-stricken, homeless Chicagoans.

Though he was himself the butt of most of his jokes, he often expressed his opinions in terms as conclusive and quite as funny as those of his world-famous reply to the sanctimonious fence-committee, who, claiming that the laying of his railroad had destroyed the greater part of the old fence about a country graveyard, demanded that he should replace it with a new one. Scarcely were the words out of their lips than, swift as a flash, came the characteristic answer: "What under heaven do you want a fence round a graveyard for? The poor chaps that are in there can't get out, and, I'll take my Bible oath, those that are out don't want to get in! Fence around a graveyard! I guess not; I know a dozen better ways of spending money than that!"

I heard much of his generosity on benefit nights, but personally I never tested it. Before my benefit night arrived, Mr. Edward Stokes had caught Mr. Fisk on a walled-in staircase, as in a trap, and had shot him down, and then, in that time of terror and excitement, Jubilee Jim proved that whatever else he had been called—man of sin, fraud, trickster, clown—he was not a coward! With wonderful self-control he asked, as the clothing was being cut from his stricken body: "Is this the end of me; am I going to die, doctor?"

And when the man addressed made an evasive and soothing answer, that his hopeless eyes contradicted, James Fisk testily continued: "I want to know the truth!" Then, more gently: "I'm not afraid to die, doctor, but I am afraid of leaving things all at sixes and sevens! This is the end of me, isn't it? Well, do what you can, and, George, send for —— and for —— [his lawyers], and I will do what I can. When can Lucy get here?"

And so he quickly and calmly made all possible use of his ebbing strength—of the flying moments—disproving at least one charge, that of cowardice. He was dying, and crowds were waiting about the hotel where he lay, hungry for any morsel of news from the victim's bedside. That was the situation as I went to the theatre. I dressed and went through one act, then, as I came upon the stage in the second act, I faced Mr. Fisk's private box. I glanced casually at it, and stopped stock-still, the words dying on my lips. A shiver ran over me—someone had entered the box since the first act and had lowered the heavy red curtains and drawn them close together.

No one could fail to understand. The flood of light, the waves of music reached to the edge of the box only—within were silence, darkness! The laughing owner would enter there no more, forever!

With swelling throat I stood looking up. Another actor entered, saw the direction of my eyes, followed it, and next moment tears were on his cheeks. Then people in the house, noticing our distress, glanced in that same direction, and here and there a man rose and slipped out. Here and there a handkerchief was pressed to a face, for without a word being spoken all knew, by the blank, closed box, that Mr. Fisk was dead.

I never knew a more trying evening for actors, for all knew him well—liked him and grieved for him. I was the only mere acquaintance, yet I was deeply moved and found it hard to act as usual before that mute, blank box—hard as though the body of its one-time owner lay within.

So he made his exit—dramatic to the last. A strange character—shrewd, sharp, vain, ostentatious, loving his diamonds, velvet coats, white gloves. The monumental silver water-pitchers in his private boxes were too foul to drink from generally, but then the public could see the mass of silver. A bit of a mountebank, beyond a question, but with a temper so sunny and a heart so generous that in spite of all his faults Jubilee Jim had a host of friends.