give some semblance of a decent performance. In order to properly advertise the event, he secured the assistance of several Hawaiians, and furnished them with a paste made out of their native product called "poi." He discovered later, to his amazement, that not a bill had been posted, and that the "poi," being a valuable food article, had been appropriated by the two individuals, who decamped. Mr. Booth, with his colleagues, then personally posted the town with the bills of the impending performance. On the evening the house was crowded. The King occupied a seat in the wings, there being no place for him in the hall. When the throne scene was to be set for the play, word was sent to His Majesty humbly asking the loan of the throne chair, which he then occupied, for use in the scene--a favor which His Royal Highness readily granted. At the end of the performance, word was brought to Booth that the King wished to see him. Booth, shy and modest as he was, and feeling that he could not speak the language, or that His Royal Highness could not speak his, approached His Majesty timidly. The latter stepped forward, slapped the actor heartily on the back and said: "Booth, this is as fine a performance as I saw your father give twenty years ago." The question as to whether an actor should feel his part or control his emotions, has been an argument which has interested the dramatic profession for many years, since it was first promulgated by the French writer Diderot, and afterwards ably discussed by Henry Irving and Coquelin. Of course, we all feel that no matter how violent the actor's stress of emotion is, he must control his resources with absolute restraint and poise. Sometimes, however, an actor feels he is under the sway of his part in an unusual degree and comes to the conviction, through his excitement, that he has given a greater performance than usual. So Booth, one night at his own theater, seeing his beloved daughter in a box, and desiring to impress her with his work, played with, as he felt, a degree of emotion that made him realize that he had given an unusually powerful interpretation. At the end of the play, his daughter ran back to him and said: "Why, dad, what is the matter with you?" And Booth, awaiting her approval, said: "Matter?" "Why you gave the worst performance I ever witnessed," she said. This control of one's resources and the check upon one's feelings was indicated at another time during a performance of Booth, of "Richelieu," as told to me by the actor's friend, the late Laurence Hutton, the writer. Mr. Hutton and Mr. Booth were sitting in the latter's dressing room at Booth's Theater. Booth was, as usual, smoking his beloved pipe. When he heard his cue, he arose, and walked with Hutton to the prompter's entrance, where, giving his pipe to his friend, said: "Larry, will you keep the pipe going until I come off?" Booth entered on the scene; then came the big moment in the play when the