The merchant who has anything to dispose of advertises it, and the most successful men in any line of business are those who are most liberal in the use of printers' ink. The theatrical fraternity thoroughly understand this, and their first and foremost idea in everything they do is to get themselves before the public, and, if possible, keep themselves there. Their appreciation of the value of a puff or notice is beautifully set forth in the following funny paragraph which I found floating around in the newspapers:—

"A Leadville paper stated that a well-known actress who visited that city went to a saloon after a performance, played poker, got drunk, licked the bartender, and cleaned out the crowd. Of course she was very indignant and was going to cowhide the editor, when the amazed journalist explained to her that it was a first-class puff that would get her an opening in society in Leadville. And then she thanked him and gave him a dozen passes."

Some actors, and some actresses, too, do not care a cent what the means employed are or what the printed matter is, so the names are their own and once more they are before the people. The great majority, however, while anxious to appear in print as often and in as many columns as a paper can spare without throwing out paying advertisements, are very scrupulous about the character of the statements credited to them or actions spoken of, while all affect to be utterly independent of the press and to have no regard whatever for the good it can do them, or the harm either. If they meant what they said they might be set down as foolish; but they do not mean anything of the kind, and the fact that day after day the most outrageous stories about professional people go uncontroverted, is an indication that not only are they willing to have such things published, but may have instigated them themselves.

The only kind of newspaper notice a Thespian might not court, but which, once printed, would be looked upon philosophically as so much printers' ink obtained for nothing—so much advertising had that wasn't paid for—is such a one as the announcement of the attempt of a sheriff to lasso Miss Fanny Davenport, in order that he might be able to hold her long enough to read a writ of some sort to her.

Different actors and actresses have different ways of advertising themselves. The interview is a favorite with some, and often the interview is so arranged that the player can appear before the newspaper man in some eccentric attitude that will attract more attention than all the player could say if he talked for one hundred years. Harry Sargent likes a reporter to see Modjeska, and as the visitor enters he finds the Polish actress firing across the room with a pistol at a small target, which she manages to hit every time. Displaying diamonds is another scheme to catch the unwary newspaper man. Sending along photographs is expected to throw an editor into an ecstasy of liberality out of which he will come with at least a half-column puff of the pretty creature whose counterpart presentment has been sent to him. Diamond robberies are worth at least a column. Falling heir to $5,000,000 or more will bring an interview that will be worth almost as much as the legacy. In everything an actor or an actress says and does the newspaper will find something worth printing, and in printing it the paper does exactly what the actor or actress wants—places him or her before the public. Mme. Janauschek gets a slight jolt in going down the shaft of a Colorado mine, and the country is immediately informed that she has had a narrow escape from death. Minnie Maddern, a new star who expects to rival Lotta, is made a brevet officer of the Continental Guards of New Orleans, and her manager feels assured that the people of the United States would not sleep well if they didn't hear about it within twenty-four hours, so he gets the Associated Press to telegraph it in all directions, that at least a few lives may be saved. A Bohemian prince presents Emma Thursby, at Prague, with a pair of nightingales, and about ten lines of every newspaper this side of the Atlantic are wasted in making the silly announcement. The souvenir and flower "rackets" both carry a certain weight, and the lithograph that fills the eye as one gazes into a shoe store window is a glory that can never fade from the optic that has even for a second of time dwelt upon it.

Minnie Palmer, if all reports be true, came to the front some time ago with a new bid for a free advertisement. She entertained a Louisville Courier-Journal reporter with a display that must have made the young man blush. "Our company has got into the chemise fever," exclaimed Minnie, artlessly, "and we're trying to see which can make the prettiest one. I'll show them to you," and then, regardless of the helpless man's blushes, she disemboweled a trunk and buried him beneath an avalanche of snowy underwear. Their construction was minutely explained, and then the conversation naturally led to flannels, which Minnie confidentially remarked could not be worn by actors because of the risk of colds when compelled to leave them off. The theme could scarcely be pursued further than flannels, and the interview closed with Minnie's confession that she didn't like to be hugged on the stage in warm weather. In winter, and unencumbered by flannels, the operation was not so distasteful. All of this may seem irrelevant, and having very little to do with dramatic art, but it made a column for Minnie all the same.

The Abbott Kiss, invented by John T. McEnnis, a reporter on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, but always claimed by Jimmy Morrissey, who was her agent at the time, traveled everywhere and was printed in every newspaper from New York to San Francisco. It had just about played out when in 1881, during the prevalence of small-pox, Miss Abbott had herself vaccinated on one of her lower limbs, and again the papers advertised her. She afterwards acted in the capacity of interviewer for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, and was commissioned to get a talk out of Patti, but spent all the time she was with the diva in kissing and hugging her, and when she came away from her had nothing to write about. Still Miss Abbott is a hard-working, gifted, and agreeable little lady, and must be regarded as the best lyric prima donna America can boast of.

Speaking about Patti: she came to the United States under foreign management, and with all her sweetness and beauty of voice and the greatness of her reputation, she could do nothing until an American manager who understood the art of advertising took hold of her. He began his work at once by decorating his theatre in lavish style for her first concert, and completed his initial triumph by causing a crowd of young fellows to unhitch the horses from Patti's carriage and run with the vehicle through the streets to her hotel. The report next day said the amateur horses were society swells, and so the news went into every State of the Union. Neilson's carriage was dragged through the street in the same way once at Toronto. Patti got another free "ad." by visiting Paddy Ryan, the pugilist John Sullivan knocked out of time, in his training quarters at New Orleans, just as Bernhardt went to see Englehardt's whale at Boston for the sake of the advertisement she got.

Just as Schneider kicked herself into the good graces of the Parisians, Catherine Lewis, of "Olivette" fame, managed to "fling" herself into popularity here. The Lewis fling in the farandole was known and sought after everywhere. It was a wild and wayward tossing of limbs and arms that caught the eye and held the attention not so much because there was anything artistic in it, but because one expected every minute to see it grow less and less restrained until it broke out into something like the reckless indecency of the cancan. It advertised Catherine Lewis as she has not been advertised since, and as she probably never will be again. As the "fling" is not dead yet I will try to describe it. After the solo and while the first chorus is being given she moves back with the other dancers, throwing her arms from right to left and left to right again, when the dancers came to a standstill. Olivette is seen posing in a lop-sided, Pisa-like attitude, with both arms and head inclining to the left. The chorus is repeated, and as the repetition begins the dancers turn themselves loose with Olivette in the van. "Oho" she sings and swings to the left; "Oho" to the right, "Oho" to the left again, when out pops the left slipper, followed swiftly by the right ditto, and the toe of the latter foot-covering tumbles over the horizon of the orchestra leader's head, and there is a confusion of embroidery and white linen and silk hose that fills the eye of the man in the parquette with a flash of joy and causes a warm still wind to roll in a breezeful way around his cardiacal region. "Oho," "Oho" and "Oho" again, with more body throwing, and this time the elevation of the toe of the left slipper above the line of vision, just a little higher than before, followed by three more "Oho's," and the quivering of the satin slipper on the right foot high over the foot-lights and in close range to the man with field glasses to his eyes who is sitting in the first row of the parquette. And that's all there is to the farandole—nine swings or throws of the body and three kicks every time she comes down the stage, the altitude of the kick growing with each succeeding effort until the last spasmodic, Ærial evolution of the satin slipper brings about a display of linen that would do credit to the lingerie counter of a dry goods store. Olivette has the attention of the entire audience while this is going on. She goes up and comes down the stage twice, swinging and kicking with an anatomical riot behind her, every female member of the company from the chorus girl up to the Countess vying with Olivette in sending the farandole off with a hurrah and multiplicity of "flings." When the chorus has come to an end, there is a bold encore for its repetition, and away they go again.

Miss Lewis at one time while in New York was freely advertised in both meanings of the word, because she sold tickets for her benefit in her room at the hotel, where all could apply to purchase them.

Maggie Duggan, a young lady until recently comparatively unknown, has suddenly made herself famous by nightly kicking her slipper to the top of the Bijou Theatre, New York. She is a comic opera singer. This is lofty limb work that Mlle. Sara, the original high kicker, might envy.

Emilie Melville, an operatic star of California, in looking over her stock of presents could think of nothing more suitable or anything that would prove more acceptable to the dramatic critics of San Francisco and her friends than to give each one of her slippers. So she held a reception; and, dressed in Oriental toilet, she presented each as he came with one of the tiny silken slippers in which her tootsies used to slumber on the stage. It was such a novel proceeding that Miss Melville got more gratuitous puffing than she could have paid for with the profits of one of her best seasons.

Henry Mapleson, whom I know has no fear of the newspaper man, but rather courts his society and wooes the columns of his paper, made the following ridiculous statement (to a reporter) concerning the manner in which he and his wife, Marie Roze, were pestered by reporters on the road: "They began early in the morning. When I first opened my bed-room door I was sure to find one or two outside of it. No detail was too small for them. They would follow us around and give scraps of our conversation, and one fellow even sat at the same dinner-table with us in Kansas City and printed a list of all the things my wife ate, making it about five times as long as the truth called for, and adding such trifles as four oranges, six pieces of cake, etc. My wife was so angry when this account appeared in the afternoon paper that we determined to have our supper in our room, and, as the landlord would not consent to that, I bought a steak during the evening, and Marie Roze, still dressed as Helen of Troy, began to cook it over a spirit lamp. We were congratulating ourselves that no reporter would know anything about that supper, when a knock was given on the door. 'Who's there?' I called out. The answer came back through the keyhole: 'I am a reporter of the Morning Buzzard, and I want to know what you had for supper. That Evening Crow fellow got ahead of me on the dinner, but I'll fetch him on the supper.'"

A story that illustrates, in an exaggerated way, though, the tricks of the dramatic profession, is told of a shrewd agent who found himself in Mansfield, Ohio, with a company on his hands and pursued by bad business so relentlessly that he began to have doubts that he would ever see Union Square again. In this strait he called his never-failing wits to his aid and devised a plan straightway that led him out of the difficulty, as had happened to him many a time before. He went to the room of his star—his leading lady—and knocked. He was admitted. "Why, Sam," said she, "what do you want at this hour?"

"I want your ear," said he.

"Oh, is that all," said the leading lady, recovering from her pallor; "I thought—but no matter; go on."

"You know business is bad," said he.

"Well, I should smile," said the artiste; "since I haven't had any salary for four weeks. What's the new racket."

"It's this," said the agent: "If we expect to go out of this town we've got to do something Napoleonic. And you've got to do it."

"You forget my sex," said she.

"No, I don't," said he; "there may be a Napoleon in petticoats as well as in trousers."

"Very well, what is it?"

"I want to get a column in each of the daily papers."

"Well, I guess you'll want it, for all the newspaper boys know we've got a snide show this time," she said.

"Well, I guess not, if you'll do what I tell you," said the artful agent.

"What is that?" inquired the guileless actress. "You know the railroad bridge outside of town?"

"That shaky old wooden structure of patched logs and sleepers?"

"Yes."

"Well, what of it?"

"That bridge will get us columns in every paper for forty miles around."

"You've got 'em, Sam, sure."

"No, I haven't. I'm solid on the biz. Now listen: I want you to go to-morrow and stand in the middle of that bridge when the two 2:20 trains pass each other going in opposite directions."

"Well, you are fresh. What'll I do that for?"

"For an 'ad.'"

"And where will I be when the trains pass?"

"Why, if you're smart and listen to me, you'll be clinging to the trestle-work underneath until they pass over you, then I'll head on back to the hotel and have all the reporters come up and interview you, and then there will be columns published, the house will be filled that night and we will rake in a heavy stake."

The actress saw the point and had the pluck to execute the project of the agent. She stood on the bridge at the appointed time. She shrieked in the most frantic manner. The engineer reversed the engine and whistled down brakes, but in spite of all the train passed over her. There was a great sensation. She was dragged out from the trestle-work and taken to the hotel. The papers which would not take the advertisement of the show because the manager could not pay in advance sent reporters to interview the actress on her narrow escape, and gave columns to the company. The result was a series of full houses and the "snides" made a triumphant march eastward on the impetus of the shrewd agent's "gag."