I have—

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

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

lied—to myself—for recreation;

cheated—the undertaker;

deceived—only "yours truly;"

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

been a gambler—on the green;

a rambler—on the nod;

an actor—on the job;

a hypocrite?—no, by God!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three saddest events in my life:—

The burial of my son.

The death of Eliza Weathersby.

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

The three happiest events:—

The birth of my son.

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

My first performance in "The Merchant of Venice."

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

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

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

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

My own darling Son:

C. R. Goodwin