After touring the rural towns in "In Mizzoura," I opened at the Baldwin Theatre, San Francisco, June, 1896. It was then that I discovered that San Francisco stands alone among the cities of the world. It is indeed a strange place. The coolest time of the year and by far the pleasantest is during the summer months and yet many of the inhabitants go East, to swelter in New York or at the hotter sea shores.

I know of no more delightful city in America during June, July and August than San Francisco. But everyone who can afford it packs up and leaves! This of course has a tendency to affect the business of the theatres, particularly the high-priced ones.

Dear old "Mizzoura!" How I love the play and my character, Jim Radburn! My company, organized for Australia, comprised the following people:—William Ingersoll, Fraser Coulter, Clarence Handysides, Neil O'Brien, H. C. Woodthorp, Louis Payne (whom I predict will become an excellent character actor some day), Arthur Hoops, Blanche Walsh, Estelle Mortimer, Emily Melville and the Misses Usner and Browning. The play went exceedingly well and it was pronounced a big hit. We retired from our labors quite contented for it was really a meritorious performance. Barring a little nervousness on the part of some of the ladies and gentlemen who were new in their characters we gave a splendid ensemble.

By the way, what an awful thing is this nervousness on the first night! The older the artist the more intense is the suffering. You, dear public, who sit in silent judgment upon the poor player on his initial performance, know nothing of the anguish going on behind the curtain. You do not see the blanched faces that no grease-paint yet invented can conceal nor hear the whispered ejaculations of us all, fearful of our finish and sick with anxiety for our brothers and sisters in art who are experiencing the same torture! Everything is forgotten save the result of those awful three or four hours. If you only knew what your verdict meant I tell you, gentle reader, you would be less harsh in your judgment of us. Think of the many, many people who are interested in your verdict, the many whose very life and sustenance depend upon your words. Think of the amount of toil involved in the production of a new play.

First comes the evolution of a plot. And this is but the beginning of the author's work. For him it is toil, toil, toil. Then comes his fearful ordeal of reading his work to the actor-manager for whom it was written. Perhaps his future depends upon it—his destiny!

Next comes the selection of the cast to perform the work. I regret to state that in this era versatility is lacking because of the absence of fine stock companies. We actor-managers are forced to select actors and actresses who are fitted only physically, mentally (and sometimes socially) for the respective rÔles. This is shocking when one considers the art seriously. However, such is the case, and we "luxuries" must accept the inevitable.

After the cast has been selected comes another reading of the play—another ordeal for the author. Then begin the rehearsals which last for many weeks and the invention of stage business, a technical term which means pantomime, facial expression, gesticulation, everything pertaining to the performance save the speaking of lines. This is a very powerful, if not the factor in the success of a play. During the long hours of rehearsal one must be on the alert for everything, constantly changing here and there, putting new lines in, cutting others out, changing business (stage managers as a rule are most vacillating and unless particularly gifted prone to forget to-day what they invented yesterday).

At the finish we go home and study! It is generally midnight before the actor gets this opportunity! He studies his lines, say, until four. Then he retires and sleeps until about nine, if he can! He must be in the theatre for the ten o'clock call to rehearse what he has studied at home. I do not believe in studying one's part during waits at a rehearsal. Your lines lose their value unless you understand the meaning that prompts the speaking. Hang around the wings during your waits, you young Thespian. Watch the older ones and you will absorb more knowledge of your profession in one week than in a season of studying during rehearsal.

After the company is perfect in lines, business, etc., the announcement is made for the first night's performance. I have not mentioned the mechanical portion of the enterprise and I wish that I could skip it, but I must not. I am against all realism and mechanism in art, but as some of our worthy English cousins have inaugurated these so-called attributes I accept them.

This, gentle reader, is part of what a first night means. Think of what we all go through. Think of the many anxious hearts that are waiting at home for your verdict—the mother, brother, sister, sweetheart, wife, friend. Think of this, you men-about-town, who, when an act is over, confuse it with your bad dinner. Think of it, gentle (?) critic, and if you can't speak well of us at least be courteous. Think of it, you, who have no comprehension beyond the roof gardens of New York! What devastators of art! Think of it, you, who consider the theatre a place for mere diversion! Think of it, you, who never divorce the actor from his character! Be kind and patient. So much depends upon you. Remember we are doing our best. Don't shatter our little houses or our hopes! To do so is so easy!

But we were speaking of San Francisco!

From the opening performance of "Mizzoura" the manager of the theatre, Mr. Bauvier, was delighted. He told my representative that it was a great success and said, "Why, by Thursday Goodwin won't be able to get them in!"

He was quite right—I wasn't! Thursday night a tranquil mob avoided the Baldwin Theatre. Rows of red plush chairs yawned eloquently. Perhaps yours truly was the cause of this. Something was the cause. Maybe the transition from broadcloth to homespun shocked the San Francisco public! It could not have been the play.

Ruskin classified paintings into three orders and ranks least of all those which represent the passions and events of ordinary life. Perhaps the enlightened public of San Francisco agrees with Ruskin. I don't. I want the mirror held up to Nature even though it is bespattered with a little wholesome mud.

Jim Radburn is a little man with red hair. He is dramatic, not theatrical. But San Francisco asked, "How can a man be a hero and have red hair?"

The public will never divorce the individual from the character portrayed. It has been my great battle for years to endeavor to persuade the public to realize that it must disassociate the two. Banish the man and woman artist you meet in every day life and absorb the characters of the parts which they are portraying. Then we shall stand side by side in art with any country. I am very glad to say that I see development every day in the right direction, particularly in my own little efforts. If I succeed in piercing the tissue that separates laughter from tears who is so narrow as to grudge me the modest rank I hope to attain in the realms of dramatic art?

This talk of mediocre business in San Francisco recalls a story told of the late William Manning, one of the cleverest of all Ethiopian comedians. He had arrived at the most critical period in his career, poor and in ill health. But he procured a backer and took out a company of minstrels. The trip proved disastrous and they were about to close. But Manning bore his losses with great fortitude and humorous philosophy.

One morning, after a wretched house the previous evening, he chanced to run across a professional rival of his, but socially a great friend, Billy Emerson. They exchanged salutations. Emerson at this time was at the zenith of his fame and quite wealthy. It took but a few moments for the epigrammatic Manning to acquaint the successful African Impresario, Emerson, of his financial condition. To quote a Rialto expression, "he touched and fetched!"—meaning, he solicited financial aid and his request was granted.

As Manning stalked away, his face wreathed in smiles, which actually seemed to reflect their rays on the tall silk hat which always adorned the minstrel irrespective of his bank account, Emerson called after him, "Say, by the way, Bill, where do you play to-night?" Manning, after feeling in his vest pocket to reassure himself that Emerson had really given him $500, replied:

"Now we play Albany. If I had not met you we should have spent the summer here!" "We play there two nights after you," said Emerson. "Will you announce us to the public from the stage?" "Yes, I will—if he stays," replied Manning.

Chapter LI