Warfield, as a player, possesses in a marked degree the charm ascribed to John Bannistere (one of the greatest serio-comic actors in theatrical annals), that he wins you immediately by seeming to care nothing about you. His identification with the character of _Bigelow_ was absolute and he never, for even a moment, lapsed out of it. It had been long since such complete absorption, such living inside of a fancied identity, had been seen on the stage. The blending of humor and pathos was exceedingly fine, and it touched the heart even while it brought a smile to the lips.--“A Grand Army Man,” together with “The Music Master,” was acted at the Stuyvesant Theatre until May 2, 1908, when Warfield’s season closed. On the opening night Belasco, called upon the stage by a brilliant and enthusiastic audience, made a brief speech, saying: [Illustration: DAVID WARFIELD AS _WES’ BIGELOW_, IN “A GRAND ARMY MAN” Photograph by Byron. Belasco’s Collection. ] “I am very grateful, ladies and gentlemen, that you have given me this opportunity to speak a few words of welcome to you--of welcome warm as heart can make it, to each and every one of you, the friends who have been kind enough to honor me by coming to this little house-warming to-night in our new, and, I hope, our permanent, home. It is a privilege to come before you; to see you here; to see and recognize, as I do, so many of the faces of those who have given me their support ever since I came here from that dear, far-off city of the West where I was born. It gives me such great happiness, ladies and gentlemen, to see you here; to know, as I do know by your generous applause, that you like the play we have produced for you and that you still love, as I am sure you do, that splendid actor and loyal and dear friend of yours and mine, Mr. David Warfield, who is playing here so beautifully to-night. Ladies and gentlemen, I hardly am able to express myself to you. In one of the great plays in which I myself used to act, many, many years ago--and which, before I die, I hope to have the privilege of placing before you, here, in New York--there is a speech that has kept coming back into my mind all this evening, as I have listened to your applause and tried to think what I could say to you: “‘You have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.’