If you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night—I will admit you all free in New Zealand—if you will come to me there for the orders. Any respectable cannibal will tell you where I live. This shows that I have a forgiving spirit.
I really don't care for money. I only travel round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on have been a great success in America.
How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.
I am not an Artist. I don't paint myself—though perhaps if I were a middle-aged single lady I should—yet I have a passion for pictures.—I have had a great many pictures—photographs—taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty—rather sweet to look at for a short time—and as I said before, I like them. I've always loved pictures. I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.—The people of the village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.
Time passed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that Time passes on.—It is a kind of way Time has.
I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist—but I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who takes photographs—and I have a servant who—takes anything he can get his hands on.
When I was in Rome—Rome in New York State, I mean—a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands—he would have flooded the market with my busts—and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course—and wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand—and I should have to return home—where my creditors are.
I like art. I admire dramatic art—although I failed as an actor.
It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor.—The play was
"The Ruins of Pompeii."—I played the ruins. It was not a very
successful performance—but it was better than the "Burning Mountain."
He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask—"Where are the boys of my youth?" I assure you this is not a conundrum. Some are amongst you here—some in America—some are in jail.