Let me begin by saying that I am not a “Monarch of Minstrelsy,” not even a duke or prince; as a matter of fact I am a mere subject, perhaps it would be more exact to say I am a slave, for I cannot recall the time when the curtain having been rung up on the first part, the interlocutor saying, “Gentlemen, be seated,” that it did not thrill me through and through; in all probability they would have been seated without his invitation, but still, disappointment would have been keen had he not have done so. Then the overture accompanied by the bones and tambos; but that part of the performance seems to be obsolete now; and how I yearn for it. The second son of the late Wm. Henry Rice, who put on cork for nearly fifty years, I was born in New York City, August 24, 1871, on Fourteenth Street, nearly opposite the Armory, above Sixth Avenue. If you happen to see a crowd around there at any time, you will know it is part of the excited populace trying to carry away portions of the building which housed me on my first appearance in any country. I can remember, as a youngster even before my school days began, my father asking me if I wanted to be a minstrel? I knew that my mother was averse to it and, as they both looked at me awaiting my reply, I vehemently said NO; that was the first lie I ever told. I have done better subsequently, but they have no bearing on this matter. When I was about six or eight years of age, my father, wishing to celebrate the occasion in a fitting manner, took me down town (Philadelphia) and giving me my choice to go in one direction and see “Jack the Giant Killer,” or take another route and see the minstrels. I had heard a whole lot about the youthful prodigy who made a business of trimming big husky gents for the sake of getting an appetite that he might better enjoy his meals, and confess to a feeling of curiosity; but it was the “nigger singers” for mine, and it was there that I obtained my first recollection of any individual performer. It was Bobby Newcomb doing Topsy. Whether it was an “Uncle Tom” show, with which the late minstrel was prominently identified at one time, or whether it was a burletta on Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work, I never learned, but Newcomb’s dress, a ragbag affair, I remember distinctly, subsequently, one made from an American flag, finishing with the well-known suit of white duck in knee-breeches. That was the beginning. I decided then that a minstrel’s life was the life for me, and for years I importuned my father to take me on the road with him, finally obtaining a promise to go the next time he took a show out. This was somewhat hazy, but I clung to it tenaciously, and when in July, 1890, he organized the World’s Fair Minstrels, my happiness was unbounded. I was in Philadelphia at the time, passing cigars and tobacco over the counter of a Smoke Emporium presided over by Lew Simmons, one of the oldest active minstrels in harness to-day; observe the date again, please.