was always unlucky, and was sure to be at liberty again after a week or so. And so it went on. His life was one long disappointment, but he managed to live, and took failure after failure philosophically and struggled on again. I lost sight of him years ago and had nearly forgotten him when that newspaper item brought back to me a picture of that goodnatured face, cordial manner and hearty shake of the hand-alas! now still forever.

That afternoon I called at the tenement, and in a little back room, cheerless, barren ́ and destitute of furniture, I found the body of poor Tony. I hardly recognized him. The item was correct; he had undoubtedly starved to death. My feelings can easier be imagined than described as I stood over that cold, rigid form, and realized how, sick and deserted by every one, he had suffered when perishing for want of a crust while I had enough for twenty.

As I turned to go I noticed a large piece of manilla wrapping paper that had been scribbled on over in one corner of the room. I picked it up out of curiosity more than anything else, and saw that it was written closely on both sides with a lead pencil. It was Tony's handwriting. I sat down by that silent witness of fortune's cruel blows and read it. It was a message from the dead indeed, but why it had been written I have never been able to guess, unless it was simply scribbled off at odd moments to occupy his mind when confined to a bed from which he never arose. With that pale, emaciated face before me, telling of disappointment, privations, sorrow, sickness and death, I read the following:

AN APOLOGY FOR THE LIFE OF TONY D

While I have no very good reason for believing that my experience has been an exceptional one, since I commenced to tread the rosy paths of the histrionic bower, there is, I think, an excuse for the appearance of these volumes.

A sketch of my life may prove interesting to those who are as yet outside the pale, or rather the bower, of theatredom. It may at the same time draw attention to certain evils therein and hasten the dawn of that dramatic millennium which all true lovers of our art are striving and waiting for.

That sentence may seem a trifle high flown at first sight, but I am confident that all right minded persons will understand what I mean.

I am sensitive about some things, that of being thought egotistical when I use so many of those great I's being one of the most pronounced. It's so apt to be misunderstood, to bring down upon one the charge of egotism, self-importance, etc., but my Boswell persists in remaining mute and motionless in the background, and declines to come forward like a man and do his duty.

Years ago Colley Cibber was in the same fix. Without indulging in a spread-eagle introduction I will state at once that I was born; well, it is immaterial to you, gentle reader (this,

I believe, is the correct form of addressing the public on these occasions), whether the event took place in 1856 or 1857. It happened.

(The gentle reader will doubtless observe that I suppress all details regarding my ancestors. I know that it is customary in works of this kind to go back six or eight generations, but all progressive people will appreciate this coming right down to business at once.)

I remember little or nothing of that "first scene of all," and, in fact, it was not until I had reached the mature age of two that I realized the fact that the curtain had been rung up and that I was on the scene.

I confess that I was dazed at first, but I soon got used to it, and then how proud I was that my debut had been made in Jonesville! how happy to think that everything was going off nicely, and that papa, mama, nurse, and all the rest were already proud of me. My remembrance of that period is so misty that I cannot speak positively on the subject, of course, but I am sure they saw indications even then of a smouldering dramatic fire, and prophesied glorious triumphs for me on the mimic scene in years to come. But little could they realize the fact that the genius they were so proud of was eventually to become the greatest curse of my life, blasting my hopes, paralyzing my ambition, and exiling me from the joys and blessings of common mortals.

I did'nt either.

If I had I should certainly have managed to make a hasty exit, R. U. E., by falling into a tub of scalding water, or by putting myself on the prompt side of an overdose of soothing syrup.

As a child I was precocious. I mingled but little with others of my years and turned joyfully from the stupid pastimes of babyhood to my Shakespeare. Tin rattles, rubber rings, blocks and marbles, were thrown aside for my favorite author. How I reveled in that book!

It was a beautiful copy, unlike those which young geniuses generally pore over, which are always, strangely enough, very old, very dirty and dog-eared. My Shakespeare was entirely different. It was a large paper copy. (Edition limited to 200 copies) bound in crushed levant morocco, beautifully embossed, superbly illustrated. It had a gilt top and a blue satin book mark.

Many a night, while others of my age were wasting their time in idle sleep, have I worshipped at that shrine, and devoured those wonderful pages, figuratively speaking, of course. I wa unmindful of the swiftly passing hours, until the alarm clock, calling the servant to build the fires next morning, brought me to my. self again.

This was naturally convenient, but somewhat of a shock to my system.

My father, who, by the way, was the Presbyterian minister in Jonesville, encouraged me (wrongfully I think) in this practice, and agreed

with mother, dear old soul, that the end justified the means. I was continually surprising them by some new indication of my dramatic instinct, and on such occasions was invariably awarded with some new work on my favorite author until my Shakespearian library was a marvel of completeness and envied by students for miles around.

My reputation as a prodigy increased. At six, I was, they say, wonderful.

Like Edmund Kean, I was hoisted up on to the table after d ssert when we had company, and scenes from Shakespeare were followed by somersaults and contortion feats. A song and dance (to show my versatility), generally closed the exhibition amid the shouts and bravos of the guests. Encore after encore was demanded until physical prostration compelled me to stop, and I was borne to my room in a very hysterical condition.

But these dramatic outbursts were exhausting. I felt it would be dangerous to continue them, and determined to smother my natural inclinations and take to farming or some other light agreeable work. But my fond parents would'nt have it, and so after much protesting and many tears, I was obliged to sacrifice my wishes and become an actor.

My first public appearance was arranged to take place in the public hall of my native town. Jonesville differs from New York only in one particular. It is somewhat smaller.

Stay, there is another thing. Newspaper criticism in that town is criticism that has been developed into an exact science. There is no difference of opinion on art matters. One paper does not call you a barn storming ranter while another places you on the same pedestal with Garrick and Cooke and Forrest and Salvini. There is an unanimity of opinion in the Jonesville Gazette that is as refreshing as it is unusual. and when one wakes up in the morning after a performance there and languidly calls for the morning papers he finds none of those bewildering contradictions that are so common in New York.

66

Hamlet," my favorite part, was, of course, chosen for my debut.

The eventful evening arrived promptly on time and found me calm and collected. And here I must draw the line. I cannot describe that night's triumph without laying myself open to the charge of being a wild, egotistical exaggerator. I shrink from the attempt, and will only say it was a success and I was fairly launched on the dramatic billows. I am still there, but oh, how changed! I am not as fresh and hopeful as I was. I am battered and weather-beaten, literally twisted out of all resemblance to my former joyous self, and life is a burden.

And managers have done it all!

I will explain. For a year or so after my debut I was happy. I invariably played to enormous business through the Michigan and Indiana circuits, and peace and plenty were my

portion. I was rolling in wealth; I was the idol of the public, feted and caressed. But the blow which I had long dreaded fell at last. My reputation had reached New York and I commenced to receive offers from managers. They came slowly at first-two or three a day, and were invariably consigned to the waste paper basket.

I innocently thought that if they were ignored the annoyance would cease. But it did'nt. It increased in fury ten fold, and I soon had such a horror of postmen and messenger boys that the mere sight of one would throw me into a hysterical condition closely bordering on to madness. I wanted peace. I had tasted the sweets of an independent life and I wanted no manager. Mother always traveled with me and attended to all the business arrangements nicely. I longed to continue my career unfettered by managerial interference. My talents belonged to the public and not to managers. Why, then, should they persecute me by solicitations which they must have known were as obnoxious to me as they were detrimental to my artistic growth? I ask this question in good faith, but like others I have on hand, it remains unanswered.

This state of affairs continued until life became fairly unbearable, and, at last, rendered desperate by repeated attacks, I resolved to fight the matter to the bitter end. I came to New York and made my preliminary move without delay.

The following advertisement appeared in all the newspapers:

NOTICE TO MANAGERS.

The undersigned, anxious to avoid bloodshed, takes this means of informing all theatrical managers that he is not open to offers for the coming season, or for any season, and begs to be relieved from considering proposals for his services. He cautions all persons from approaching him on the subject, and will not be responsible for the consequences if this warning is disregarded. TONY D--.

And should the gentle reader ask what was the result, my answer must be: Horrible! I had deliberately walked into the lion's den, confident in my strength to crush the monsters, and found, too late, that I was mistaken. They sprung upon me from every side, and they are springing still.

Every mail brings documentary evidence that the New York theatrical managers are not only fearless creatures, but utterly heartless, and inconsiderate of an actor's peace of mind as well. Their devices to obtain personal interviews display an ingenuity worthy of a better cause. All of my meals must be served in my private apartments by my own servants, as I early discovered that one of New York's leading managers had endeavored to bribe the chief usher in the dining room of the hotel to allow him to disguise himself in a waiter's dress suit and bring up my breakfast.

When I take a drive I must steal out of the private entrance like a thief and shoot myself into the carriage like a sky-rocket.

I love nature and long to enjoy a morning ramble in the park now that the glories of summer are being unfolded. The glistening dew, the budding flowers, the twittering birds, afford me endless food for meditation and the highest mental delights; but if I venture forth I no sooner become absorbed in the wonders of the Creator than Manager Frohman or Palmer is seen in the distance madly bearing down on me. If I chance to escape and reach my hotel in safety, in all probability Mr. Abbey or Mr. Daly, or their representatives, are guarding the private entrance, awaiting my return.

go

around and hurry through the public lobby, congratulating myself on out-generalling these fiends, when I rush into the arms of Randall, or Miner or Dickson.

This is becoming unbearable, and if I live

That was all Death itself had mercifully put an end to his delirious fancies and taken him across the river, where, let us hope. there are no managers to trouble him.

NOTES.

B. Top.

IT was cabled to the Tribune last week that Wills, the dramatist, was at work on a play for Grace Hawthorne, in which the Empress Josephine is the leading character. There is a play by an American author, copyrighted in this country, under the name of Empress Josephine.'

**

Miss Genevieve Lytton has been engaged to play leading roles with Mrs. James Brown Potter.

*

**

The October number of the Cosmopolitan Magazine contains an interesting article by P. T. Barnum, regarding the sale of the first ticket for Jenny Lind. It will be remembered that it was sold to " Genin the hatter," who afterward became so famous through the transaction that a fortune came to him through the advertisement. Everybody wanted a Genin hat then. The man who paid such a ridiculous price ($400) for a box at the opening performance of Mrs. Potter, will hardly profit so much, At this auction sale other boxes were sold $200 and $385. Mr. Tyson bought most of the seats in the auditorium

Patch" is doing well, and thousands of friends are glad to hear that clever mart. Hanley, the manager, who has been very ill, is nearly convalescent. At the Lyceum Theatre the week will witness the concluding performance of "The Great Pink Pearl," and Mr. Sotherd goes out on a star trip with "The Highest Bidder" one way, while Mr. Gillette will take the Pearl another. On November 1, Mr. Frohman introduces the new play entitled "The Wife." At Dockstader's "Tootsie Wootsie" and the "Fall of Babylon" are considered sufficiently funny to fill the house every night, together with the ingenious business assistancce of manager E. E. Kidder. At the Standard "The Arabian Nights" is still dazzling a multitude and the box office scenes are getting brighter and more cheering every day-particularly since Mr. Morrissey has been blessed by the arrival of a

son.

At the Academy "The Dark Secret" is drawing wonderfully well. The Henley regatta scene is worth the price of admission. Minnie Palmer has concluded her seance at the Fourteenth Street Theatre, and Monday witnesses a notable production, entitled "Baron Rudolph," by Bronson Howard, with George Knight as the Baron. At the Grand Opera House the wonderful Clara Morris is supplanted by that excellent minstrel company-Messrs. Thatcher, Primrose & West. The most interesting announcement of the week, however, is that of November 7th-Henry Irving begins his engagement at the Star theatre. "Faust" will be given every night, except The Bells" and Saturday, when Alfred Jingle" will be given. Very different in character but each name suggestive of the other.

STRANGE isn't it that the bald heads are so interested in the Corsair at the Standard! See? There is an awful double meaning in this. Oh. perhaps you want it explained. Here: Corsair-coarse-hair- Bald heads-heads without hair. See?

THE Writer, a new Boston paper gotten up for the benefit of young aspirants in journalism and books, contained in its last number a "symporium" on the subject of what should be most desired in dramatic criticism. It was answered by a number of well-known critics and managers, but the most comprehensive and delightfully brief argument of the case is by Alfred Ayres.

Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all light, a'l influence, all fate,
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows, that walk by us still.

[From Beaumont and Fletcher.

THEATRES AND THEIR MANAGERS.

II. THE BUFFALO ACADEMY OF MUSIC.

The portraits presented of John H. and Henry L. Meech are of two of the best known and well liked theatrical men in the country for their tact, ability, amiability and square dealing. They are the managers of the Buffalo Academy of Music-not an Academy of Music, exactly, but a first-class theatre, formerly known as the Metropolitan. They were both born in Albany, N. Y., but I do not propose to give dates, nor-"in the name of the prophet"-figs! but facts, more or less cold but true.

Their father was the late Henry T. Meech, a manager of the old school and days, in Albany, N. Y., the Albany Museum, and in his stock companies were such wellknown actors as Mr. and Mrs. John Drew (parents of our John Drew and Mrs. Maurice Barrymore), also Barney Williams and others now forgotten.

The father came to Buffalo in 1858, and built the Metropolitan Theatre on Main street, near Seneca, and running clear through to Washington street. This theatre, now the Academy of Music, is owned by his sons, and is one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the city, situate in the heart of the business portion, the post office being on the next block, and several churches and newspapers not far away.

The Academy has always attracted the best class of the public within its walls, and it usually presents the very best "attractions" obtainable. Our "best" people like to go to the Academy, because they can see the stage and each other-and hear distinctly in all parts of the house, and it is as safe from fire and as easy of exit as any theatre I know of, without being absolutely fireproof.

Many actors and dramatic writers have chosen this theatre for the first nights of their pieces, for, as is known, actors are-as a class-given over to the idea that "luck" is everything, and the Academy is considered "Mascott. Steele Mackaye

а

brought out his strong play of "Anarchy here last season, and as it proved a great success the Messrs. Meech are now interested in it pecuniarily; it is, in theatrical parlance, "a go," and there's money in it. This reminds me of poor Raymond and "there's millions in it," for Mark Twain's trashy play, "The Gilded Age," had its first great success here. It was really played the week before in Rochester, a suburb of Buffalo. Joe Emmett brought out his first great success here, "Fritz," written by the lionheaded Chas. Gayler, and was so delighted with the results that he presented the Meech brothers with handsome gold watches, to show his appreciation of their pluck and efforts.

The elder Meech managed the theatre for some time, and at his death, about 1870, he was succeeded by the two sons "John" and "Harry," as they are familiarly called, and they have, year by year, gradually improved the theatre, stage, scenery, properties and front of the house until it now ranks among the very best in America, and justly so, for it is one of the neatest, coziest and homelike ("it is so different ") places of amusement possible. I am only afraid that the property is so valuable that Buffalo "boomers," now on the rampage, will some day boom this theatre clear out of site (site is write), and force our friends to go up

town.

Sol. Smith Russell's "Edgewood Folks" was another first successful trial here, and there are many others not now remembered by me. That kaleidoscopic piece "The Black Crook," written by a former Buffalonian, Charley Barras, was taken through a portion of the country by "the Meeches, as they are frequently called, and they also managed a tour of Lawrence Barrett's and one or more of other celebrities, and though they have been managers for some years, they are not "old fogy" by a large majority. "John" is a full-bodied, jolly looking man, not a gray hair to be seen; his face fairly beaming with