It is "the thing" to applaud the efforts of all European actors. It is far different in England. I am certain there is no prevailing antagonism because of the fact that we are Americans, but the public as a rule does not understand our methods and is quite content with its own. I only wish that we could absorb its temperament. It does get on my nerves, though, when shiploads of English actors visit America, simply to enable them to replenish their impoverished bank accounts at home. How long will it last? I wonder! However, when any foreigner visits our country with a determination to make it his permanent abode and does so I always wish him well. Take for instance Edward H. Sothern. If ever a man deserved the position he has attained Sothern does, if only for his energy and tenacity of purpose. Of course, in any other country than America, he could never have succeeded. Even in this country, surrounded as he is by an over production of filth, to make Shakespeare a paying investment is an achievement of which to be proud. I am not airing any opinion of his artistic work, as I have been privileged to witness only his performance of "Hamlet." I have also seen Charles Fechter, E. L. Davenport and Edwin Booth as the Dane, which naturally prejudices me in my criticism of Sothern's performance! But any man who has the courage to announce his intention of playing "Macbeth" for one week (and does it!) deserves a place in the Hall of Fame! Mr. Sothern deserves the congratulations of the American public--for getting away with it! And for all I've written in this chapter I must confess that-- Observation makes critics of us all! Also-- While I have confined my attention to the so-called critics I have not forgotten that there are other men engaged in the newspaper business and of these-- The average reporter reminds me of the little boy with a pea shooter. He bears malice towards no one in particular but--he's got a pea shooter! _Chapter LXII_ JAMES A. HEARNE At the time James A. Hearne gave me the photograph which accompanies this chapter he was one of the best actors, if not the best actor who spoke any language--in my estimation. He was then well into the fifties and for two score years had run the gamut from Bill Sykes (and he was king in that rôle) to the tender Nathan'l in that best of American plays, "Shore Acres." The reproduction of the inscription which Hearne wrote on the back of his photograph shows that the old gentleman was not without a keen sense of humor. I knew him all my stage life and in my eyes he was always a most wonderful person. In his early days he was prone to much dissipation, even to ruffianism; but he always drank and fought before the world. He was honest even when violently inclined. He never sneaked up back alleys to fight a foe, but met him in the open--no hiring of rooms in which to get drunk but at the open door where all could see him. And even in those days everybody loved the man.