The early eighties were replete with much excitement and lucrative receipts. From '82 to '90 I made productions annually and nearly all, I am pleased to say, were successful. A half dozen worth naming were "Sparks," "A Gay Deceiver," "Col. Tom Bottom's Dream," "A Royal Revenge," "The Skating Rink" and "A Terrible Time." During these eight years I made many friends and always looked forward to the summer with much pleasure. The two months devoted to booking my tour for the coming season always afforded me unbounded joy.

What would I not give to swing back into time and have one brief yesterday; to stroll down Broadway and grasp the hands of long ago; to drop in at the old Hoffman House, stroll to the bar and be greeted by John McCullough, by Ned Buckley (he of the angelic voice and fist of a gladiator), by Johnny Mackie, the lovable cynic, Jim Collier, the uncle of our magnetic Willie, and Sam Piercy, of stentorian tones (who died ere he blossomed)!

What would I not give to continue down Broadway to Fourteenth Street; to stop and talk with the austere, but charming Barney Macauley; to be joined by Charlie Read, the delightful minstrel; the tall and well-groomed Charles R. Thorne, Jr., and his equally attractive brother, Ned, the handsome Fred Bryton, the scholarly Charles Coghlan, the fascinating Harry J. Montague, clever George Knight, Billy Barry, Sol Smith Russell, James Lewis and John Drew! These gentlemen constituted America's "lowest and lightest," as I referred to them one spring morning as we exchanged salutations.

Anon come John Gilbert and the aggressive little John T. Raymond and, as you continue down, the distinguished members of Wallack's and the Union Square nod kindly recognition. Then you return on a journey to the St. James Hotel to be met graciously by its popular proprietor, Billy Conners, fascinating Henry Perry, the wit of Broadway, and divers other men about town, including "Plunger" Walton and the well-groomed John Daly. John Daly, the gambler? Yes, but only in the truest meaning of the word—not a corner lounger with dyed mustache, leering at the women as they passed, but a true gambler in every sense, of a type now extinct.

Those men were all "pals," men of the hour. Where they foregathered a perpetual loving cup was in evidence.

After passing the usual greetings one would take a stroll uptown as far as Thirty-fourth Street. That was as high as the afternoon professional pedestrian cared to ramble. If one were as favored as I was in those happy days one would be sure to be greeted by such beautiful and attractive women as Lillian Grubb, Marie Jansen, Kate Forsythe, Pauline Hall, Josie Hall and dainty Mollie Fuller, her chum, the Hanley sisters, the attractive Lillian Russell (almost as beautiful and radiant as now!), Marie Tempest, clever Minnie Maddern, the daughter of Tom Davey, now the talented Mrs. Fiske, the haughty Rose Eytinge, Ada Dyas and the regal Ada Rehan.

The brain grows giddy as my fancy wanders back to those beautiful autumnal days of twenty odd years ago when all was chaotic and congested, but nevertheless a delightful pot pourri of brilliancy, genius, talent and beauty. Some, in fact a majority, have passed away, but to those who were privileged to enjoy the happy association of those clever men and women a memory remains that will only be obliterated when the bell that summoned King Duncan to his doom tells us that the time has come for us to join those gone before.

Shall we join them?

I wonder!

Life is a bridge of sighs, over which memory glides into a torrent of tears.

It was somewhere in the early eighties that I first heard of the existence of the Lambs Club, situated at that time somewhere near Union Square and suggested to me as a good one to join by Harry Becket, then the leading comedian of Wallack's Theatre. It was during those busy times when all of us were compelled to travel for the season of the then thirty-two weeks that we looked forward with greatest joy to meeting our pals on the glorious Rialto. It was bounded by Broadway and Fourth Avenue, Fourteenth and Seventeenth Streets with the attractive Union Square Park forming the center of rest. It was our busy playground after our toils of the road.

I always put up at the Union Square Hotel where, after a hurried bath and shave, I would rush down to the street below to be welcomed by my many friends. Ah! What times they were! I brush away a tear as the happy memories come upon my vision. I see the tall, commanding figure of Charlie Thorne come briskly across the pavement, switching his well-shaped limbs with a tiny cane as he rushes over with outstretched hands to bid me welcome and congratulate me upon my season's efforts. A slap on the back from clever Louis Harrison and an embrace—yes, even in the open!—from his talented sister Alice; a yell from dear old Matt Snyder, many times a member of my various organizations, a grunt of welcome from the stoic, Sheridan Shook and an acknowledgment from the dignified Lawrence Barrett; a benign smile from Edwin Booth, salutations from the various members of my company, now disbanded, but only for a time! We generally kept our organizations intact for many seasons in those happy, golden yesterdays.

Often the ladies of our profession would wander downtown to meet their brothers and here and there one would come across a group of men and women in converse under the shady trees, comparing notes and making their arrangements for the following year. Dainty Kate Claxton, then the heroine of "The Two Orphans," would be seen in earnest conversation with A. M. Palmer in front of the Union Square Theatre. Maggie Mitchell would briskly acknowledge the respectful doffing of hats as she tripped across from the Morton House with sprightly Lotta as her one bright particular companion of that morning. Midway between the Morton House and the Union Square the fascinating Joe Emmett would chirp merrily on his way and hold those ladies enthralled until some other came along to interrupt their entertaining conversation.

In those days, no arbitrary booking organization held sway; no peeping Izzies or Sols had access to our books; we were all on our own, masters of our own enterprises. Like the brokers on the curb we arranged our bookings on the street. Hither and hither we flew, now procuring a week in Pittsburgh or a night in Dayton, crossing and recrossing from the Morton House to Union Square, corralling a manager for a two weeks' tour in the sunny South or four in the unattractive middle West, ever and anon stopping on our way to engage the services of some particular actor we desired for the new play. We made railroad rates with hustling agents, always on the lookout to do business with professionals. There was no Interstate Commerce law in force at that time!

We made contracts with printers and appointments with authors simultaneously!

Thus the day was occupied from ten until three when all work was suspended. Then, though a bit fatigued, we would make a hasty recapitulation of what had been accomplished, select our own particular coterie of friends and adjourn to Charlie Collins' (known as "Dollar Five" Charlie) cafÉ where the balance of the day was devoted to food, drink, anecdote and song.

Managers, agents, printers, railroad agents, actors, singers (of obscurity and fame)—all were as one when the bell struck three. Perfect equality, unanimity, brotherly love and comradeship were the qualities in vogue on the Rialto in dear old New York during the early eighties. At that time I made the remark, "When you leave New York you're camping out."

I have been camping out since 1900.

Chapter XVIII