premium—even very stupid little girls could get through them, and twos were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. Sevens were, however, my own especial nightmare—even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by seven. Standing in class on the platform, the sevens one day fell to me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely whispered, "Forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess," and burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her
thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us say anything more about the sevens, Miss Sands, and then we'll all be quite happy."
Poor little tots! Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would like to cry, "Don't let us say anything more about the masher, and then we'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. The stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination. These "Johnnies" who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love—they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple. These young "taddies," with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,—each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher;
and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.
One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged. Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. What nonsense! Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. Letters are his chief weapon. If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble. A gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. If the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be
sufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other door and probably of some other actress. But I am asked, Why does he exist? And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait, now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will
defend itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the jeunesse dorée.
But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the "masher." The clever and promising artist, Miss G——, is not his style. He is not looking for brains, "don't yer know." He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and
invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a demi-tasse. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." Oh, hideous word!
Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher" proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate