of its bearing on the play. Even with the best of actors, this constant and endless repetition is apt to become pretty mechanical. Forbes-Robertson once told me, when he was playing in The Passing of the Third Floor Back, that the part was making him terribly nervous. He said that once or twice he had actually forgotten what act he was in at the moment; and then, on coming to himself, had been amazed to find that his tongue was faithfully repeating the proper lines! And if the constant repetition consequent to a long run has such an effect on a finished artist like Forbes-Robertson it is easy to imagine what it might do to a man of tender experience.

The great Madame Ristori never played in English until she was nearly seventy years of age. She never really learned English of course; that is she thought in Italian, and learned the English words of her parts by their sound. She was able to do most effective work, great actress that she was, but this practice of parroting had its dangers. When she was supposed to say to Lord

Burleigh,

“Ah, remember

Babbington's bloody head, my old friend!" she said instead, "Remember Babbington's head, my bloody old friend!" This, of course, is an unusual case, but parroting of any kind is dangerous.

As a young man I was touring in England as Pierre Lorance in a play called Proof, which was later produced in this country under the name of A Celebrated Case. We opened in Nottingham one Monday night, and I believe it must have been about my twohundredth performance of the part. When I came to the theater on Tuesday morning there was a letter waiting for me. It began:

you play this part three months ago and you were fine. But now, I assure you, you are lamentable. I would advise that you pull yourself together."

There was no signature or address. There was no way of finding out who the writer was. If there had been I might have supposed that it was written by someone who

wanted to impress me with his knowledge of the stage. But I could see no reason for his taking the trouble to write a letter to me except an honest artistic resentment. I told the manager of the theater about it and he said: The man's crazy. I was in front last night and saw your performance. There was nothing wrong with it that I could see." But this did not satisfy me. I worried all day trying to determine what the man could have seen in my work which had so roused his antagonism. Then, that Then, that evening, in the second act where I came on in chains, having been put into prison for the murder of my wife (of which I was innocent), I caught myself up in the middle of my speech. I was saying something about the twelve long, weary years I had worked on the roads and inside the prison walls linked with thieves and murderers and suddenly I real

ized that those words were meaning nothing to me! I had grown to love the sound of them, I had got far away from the poignant tragedy in them, and was thinking only of

the momentary effect the lines might have. Then I knew why my unknown friend had tried to set me right. But my fault was due to the long repetition of the part. This is certainly not the sort of apprenticeship that is of much value to the novice who is eager to learn the fundamentals of his lifework.

Another way of making a start is to remain permanently in New York and seek engagements in the new plays which are produced on Broadway each season. The parts available will be mostly so-called "walking on parts. One is given the privilege of coming on the stage each night with the "crowd of citizens" or the "other guests"; and of course there is a chance of securing a small speaking part sooner or later. One may remain with the play until the end of the New York run, then cut himself adrift and look for another part. But such a plan requires sufficient money in hand to tide across from one engagement to the next, which periods of rest may be of one week or

many; and those weeks of idleness are valuable time thrown away.

There is another big danger in starting in such a way as this. The young and unknown applicant, when he does receive a part, is engaged not because he has any particular ability for it but because his physical appearance is more or less what is required. If, in his first part of this kind, he does satisfactory work the next one he is given is likely to be of the same type. As his work becomes known to the managers, they naturally associate him with this particular type which he has happened to fall into and do well. That is the way one-part or "type" actors are developed. Once a man gets definitely associated with a certain kind of part he is likely to be doomed to play the same old part for the rest of his life. This is a blessing for the man who can play only one part well, but it is hard for the man capable of doing other things equally well. If a man is strong enough he will fight his way out of the ruck, but it takes a pretty strong effort and a