I have gone to a town with a sober literary essay in my pocket, and seen myself everywhere announced as the most desperate of buffos,--one who was obliged to restrain himself in the full exercise of his powers, from prudential considerations.

I have been through as many hardships as Ulysses, in the pursuit of my histrionic vocation.

I have travelled in cars until the conductors all knew me like a brother.

I have run off the rails, and stuck all night in snow-drifts, and sat behind females that would have the window open when one could not wink without his eyelids freezing together.

Perhaps I shall give you some of my experiences one of these days;--I will not now, for I have something else for you.
Private theatricals, as I have figured in them in country lyceum-halls, are one thing,--and private theatricals, as they may be seen in certain gilded and frescoed saloons of our metropolis, are another.