School of Acting connected with this theater,
the Empire, of which he is proud--very proud. It is not an old
modern play, but what is called to-day "The Advanced Drama," made
possible here to-night by the momentary holiday of the New Theater,
and it is called "A Slice of Life."_

During those desperate days when, like Heinrich Heine, he seemed to be
lying in a "mattress grave," his dauntless humor never forsook him, as
this little incident will show: Some years previous, Gillette suffered a
breakdown from overwork. When the actor-playwright went to his home at
Hartford to recuperate his sister remonstrated with him.

"You must stop work for a long while," she said. "That man Frohman is
killing you." Gillette afterward told Frohman about it.

Frohman now lay on a bed of agony, and Gillette came to see him. The
sick man remembered the episode of the long ago, and said, weakly, to
his visitor:

"Gillette, tell your sister that _you_ are killing me."

With the martyrdom of incessant pain came a ripening of the man's
character. Frohman developed a great admiration for Lincoln. Often he
would ask Gillette to read him the famous "Gettysburg Address." Simple,
haunting melodies like "The Lost Chord" took hold of him. Marie Doro was
frequently summoned to play it for him on the piano. Although his
courage did not falter, he looked upon men and events with a larger and
deeper philosophy.

During that first critical stage of the rheumatism he sank very low. His
two devoted friends, Dillingham and Paul Potter, came to him daily. Each
had his regular watch. Dillingham came in the morning and read and
talked with the invalid for hours. He managed to bring a new story or a
fresh joke every day.

Potter reported at nine in the evening and remained until two o'clock in
the morning, or at whatever hour sleep came to the relief of the sick
man. One of the compensations of those long vigils was the phonograph.
Frohman was very fond of a tune called "Alexander's Rag-Time Band." The
nurse would put this record in the machine and then leave. When it ran
out, Potter, who never could learn how to renew the instrument, simply
turned the crank again. There were many nights when Frohman listened to
this famous rag-time song not less than twenty times. But he did not
mind it.

In his illness Frohman was like a child. He was afraid of the night. He
begged Potter to tell him stories, and the author of so many plays spun