I had to play in London to discover that I was an artist.
A trifler? Yes—when circumstances compelled me to associate with pin-headed critics.
And why should I take myself seriously when nobody else does?
Mind you, when I say I plead guilty that does not signify that I am. Many a man has pleaded guilty to save himself from the hangman's noose, being assured that by so doing he will receive life imprisonment. If after a perusal of the itinerary that I have written in this book of thirty-nine years before the public, in which I prove that I have run the gamut from an end man in a minstrel show to Shylock in "The Merchant of Venice" anyone pronounces me guilty I am willing to abide by his verdict.
But none will deny that I have worked—worked hard—and enjoyed it!
The three saddest events in my life:—
The burial of my son.
The death of Eliza Weathersby.
Inspecting Her Majesty's Theatre, London, with Sir Henry Irving under the guidance of Beerbohm Tree, then the lessee and manager!