“I observed with some wonder your amazing offer of _$1,000 a night_ to Irving and to Jefferson, for ten lectures, for _college commencements_. There must, of course, be some ‘business’ in this, or you would not think of it, but I should be very glad to know what qualifications are possessed by these gentlemen, or by any other _actors_, which entitled them to this peculiar eminence. A university is _a seat of learning_, and I have always supposed that the honors and rewards of _learning_ are due to great _scholars_, whose lives have been passed in study, in thought, and in labor for the art of literature and the cause of education. Mr. Irving and Mr. Jefferson are masters of the art of acting, and no one admires them more than I do; but I should hardly select either of them as monitors for a university commencement, any more than they would select me as a director of the stage. “Faithfully yours, “WILLIAM WINTER.” * * * * * One of Mr. Winter’s most cherished friends was George William. Curtis, and it is his ambition to add a George William Curtis Memorial Lyceum to the Staten Island Academy. He is sure to accomplish the work if he is spared another five years. He is the last of his kind. Only by his bravery and his fidelity to his profession could he survive the natural loneliness of his environment. There has been scarcely a great actor or actress or theatrical manager for the last forty years whom he has not known intimately and who has not been his dear friend. Among this number must be included Joseph Jefferson, Sir Henry Irving, Edwin Booth, Lester Wallack, John McCullagh, Lawrence Barrett, Barney Williams, W. J. Florence, William Weaver, John Gilbert, Adelaide Neilson, Ellen Terry, Charlotte Cushman, and Augustin Daly. One can readily come in touch with the tender vibrations and longings of his heart by reading the following poem in memory of his friend Augustin Daly, which is here reprinted by the kind permission of the Macmillan Co.: A. D. Died June 7, 1899. Long he slumbers; will he waken, greeting, as he used to do, With his kindly, playful smile, his old companions, me and you? Long he slumbers--though the wind of morning sweetly blows to sea, Though his barque has weighed her anchor, and the tide is flowing free. Long he slumbers; why, so helpless, doth he falter on the shore? Wherefore stays he in the silence, he that never stayed before? “Do not wake me!” Oh, the pity! How shall we poor toilers strive If his strong and steadfast spirit keep not our frail hope alive? All his days were given to action, all his powers of mind and will: Now the restless heart is silent, and the busy brain is still. Gone the fine ideal fancies, glorious, like the summer dawn! Ev’ry passionate throb of purpose, ev’ry dream of grandeur gone!