incinnati then. Among them I find:
"The idea of your acting in New York; why, better actresses than you are,
or can ever hope to be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage.
Do you suppose you could tie the shoe of Eliza Logan, one of the greatest
actresses that ever lived--but yet not good enough for New York? How
about Julia Dean, too? Go East, and be rejected, and then see what
manager will want you in the West."

Verily not an encouraging friend. Again I find: "Undoubtedly you are the
strongest, the most original, and the youngest leading lady in the
profession--but why take any risk? why venture into New York, where you
may fail? at any rate, wait _ten years_, till you are surer of yourself."

Good heavens! If I was original and strong in the West, why should I wait
ten years before venturing into the East?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

I recall the Popularity and too Early Death of Edwin Adams.

I hear many tales of the insolence of stars--of their overbearing
manners, and their injustice to "little people," as the term goes; but
personally I have seen almost nothing of it. In the old days stars were
generally patient and courteous in their manners to the supporting
companies.

Among the stars whose coming was always hailed with joy was Edwin Adams,
he of the golden voice, he who should have prayed with fervor, both day
and night: "Oh, God! protect me from my friends!" He was so popular with
men, they sought him out, they followed him, and they generally expressed
their liking through the medium of food and drink. Like every other
sturdy man that's worth his salt, he could stand off an enemy, but he was
as weak as water in the hands of a friend, and thus it came about that he
often stood in slippery places, and though he fell again and again, yet
was he forgiven as often as he sinned, and heartily welcomed back the
next season, so great was his power to charm.

He was not handsome, he was not heroic in form, but there was such dash
and go, such sincerity and naturalness in all his work, that whether he
was love-making or fighting, singing or dying, he convinced you he was
the character's self, whether that character was the demented victim of
the _Bastille_, young _Rover_ in "Wild Oats," or that most gallant
gentleman _Mercutio_, in which no greater ever strode than that of Edwin
Adams. His buoyancy of spirit, his unconquerable gayety made it seem but
natural his passion for jesting should go wit