  What a splendid player is William H. Thompson—Bill as he is known to his friends! I have known him for over thirty years and have admired him in many rÔles. An artist to his finger tips, he is obliged by existing conditions to fritter away his time in vaudeville instead of heading his own company or occupying a theatre as the bright particular star. While the Favershams, Millers and Skinners are starring through the country at the head of their own companies this grand artist is compelled to stifle his ambitions in playhouses which feature performing elephants, negroes and monkeys! He tells me he is acting now only to gather enough shekels to make his passing down the other side of the mountain of life be unincumbered by financial difficulties. This is a sad situation—an actor willing and capable forced to humiliate himself while ignorant German comedians, song and dance men and incompetent leading men foster their wares before a vacillating public. Well, perhaps things may change, but I fear not in dear Bill's day. The moving pictures reign supreme! Pantomime seems to gratify the multitude! Let the incense burn low and as it disappears let memories of the work of a master like Thompson cast its shadow on the pathway of the time to come! |
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