effectiveness was increased by an unusual ability
to shed tears and natural tears. I was invited behind the scenes
one evening when she had produced a great impression upon the
audience in a very pathetic part. I asked her how she did what
no one else was ever able to do.

"Why," she answered, "it is so simple when you are portraying ----"
(mentioning the character), "and such a crisis arises in your
life, that naturally and immediately the tears begin to flow."
So they did when she was illustrating the part for me.

It was a privilege to hear Edwin Booth as Richelieu and Hamlet.
I have witnessed all the great actors of my time in those characters.
None of them equalled Edwin Booth. For a number of years he was
exiled from the stage because his brother, Wilkes Booth, was
the assassin of President Lincoln. His admirers in New York felt
that it was a misfortune for dramatic art that so consummate an
artist should be compelled to remain in private life. In order
to break the spell they united and invited Mr. Booth to give a
performance at one of the larger theatres. The house, of course,
was carefully ticketed with selected guests.

The older Mrs. John Jacob Astor, a most accomplished and cultured
lady and one of the acknowledged leaders of New York society,
gave Mr. Booth a dinner in honor of the event. The gathering
represented the most eminent talent of New York in every department
of the great city's activities. Of course, Mr. Booth had the seat
of honor at the right of the hostess. On the left was a distinguished
man who had been a Cabinet minister and a diplomat. During the
dinner Mr. Evarts said to me: "I have known so and so all our
active lives. He has been a great success in everything he has
undertaken, and the wonder of it is that if there was ever an
opportunity for him to say or do the wrong thing he never failed."

Curiously enough, the conversation at the dinner ran upon men
outliving their usefulness and reputations. Several instances
were cited where a man from the height of his fame gradually
lived on and lived out his reputation. Whereupon our diplomat,
with his fatal facility for saying the wrong thing, broke in by
remarking in a strident voice: "The most remarkable instance of a
man dying at the right time for his reputation was Abraham Lincoln."
Then he went on to explain how he would have probably lost his
place in history through the mistakes of his second term. Nobody
heard a