the solid rock by nature's hand, some twothirds of the way up the canyon wall, can only be reached by a series of tall ladders, between which you scramble over rough stretches of volcanic ash until you finally haul yourself into the cave itself.

Its situation alone is most impressive, hung, as it is, in mid-air in a cliff of strange and fantastic conformation, the opposite canyon wall completely blocking the view except up and down the narrow valley that lies sheer below.

To this cave the bell-stone summoned the cliff-dwellers from their troglodytic homes, to assemble in the underground kiva which to them commemorated man's birth from Mother Earth, and in which secret ceremonies, still kept up among the Pueblo Indians, were enacted, the medicine-men rubbing stone fetiches to make lightning, produce rain, or enact other sacred rites, the males dancing the while and beating their tom-toms.

This kiva still remains quite intact, so we went down the ladder into it and inspected its so-called altar, that faces the valley, and its two side orifices, which are said to symbolize birth and death. At some time or other there were stone structures in and about this cave. The black square on the roof plainly indicates the position of one construction that stood against the back wall, while the regular rows of holes in another end mark the roof-beams of other buildings.

What they were and who occupied them who can tell? The whole history of the cliff-dwellers, who left no record behind them, is wrapped in an impenetrable veil of mystery upon which the taciturnity and secretiveness of the modern Pueblo Indian will never shed a ray of light. But this very mystery adds a romantic note that stimulates the imagination and provokes the fancy to dream of strange gods, of savage customs and legends like that of T'yotsaviyo, the child-eating giant that dwelt in the Black Mesa of San Ildefonso.

The country about Santa Fé abounds in pueblos. I have visited a number of them: Tesuque, Nambé, San Ildefonso, Santa Clara, San Juan; but the best of all unquestionably is Taos, that stands today untouched by the white man, quite as the Spanish soldiers discovered it cen

turies ago, when it became their last outpost that faced the wilderness.

It lies about ninety miles north of Santa Fé on a vast plateau at the foot of the Sangre de Cristos. Its two communal dwellings, rising five or even six stories. high, rear themselves on either bank of the Taos River, their tawny, mud-covered walls mounting tier above tier to form a succession of terraces that diminish in size as they ascend.

I shall never forget my first impression of this strange village as I approached it quite alone and saw the thin threads of blue smoke rising straight from the chimneys in the still morning air, the women in their gaudy wrappings ascending from ladder to ladder and the men enfolded in their blankets squatting silently upon the housetops. And when, having tied my horse to the cedar post of a rude corral, I poked among its narrow passageways, I was transported to another world-a world of long ago, when men dwelt simply and contented themselves with simple things.

These quiet Tañoans sitting in their chimney corners; these women baking their coarse corn bread at the outdoor ovens; these men, vigorous, healthy, in this pure mountain air, harvesting their grain and hunting in the mountains and housed within the same mud walls in which the Spaniard found them-how far they are removed from us and our ideals; how little have they been affected or influenced by centuries of contact with the white man; how well and with what dignity they wrap themselves in the impenetrable reserve of the Indian, hiding from every one, friend or enemy, their cherished traditions!

Even their ostensible religion-typified in Taos by a rude chapel no bigger than a family house-is but a cloak to hide the persistence of their old-time beliefs and superstitions. So completely do they dwell within themselves, shut in their own little circle, that the affairs of the great outside world touch them not, and, provided their own corner remains untouched, neither world wars nor cataclysms, nor the most violent political upheavals, disturb them in their utter isolation.

A strange land, this far-away New Mexico, where Spaniard and Indian retain still their racial character so completely!

MY

RHYME AND TIME

OVE is a madness," says Rosalind, "and deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do." What is to be said, then, of persons who, not having the excuse of being in love, indulge in the reprehensible conduct common to lovers, who indite verses to fictitious divinities and venture to rhyme while retaining their reason? If the whip and the dungeon should be the fate of the one, surely the block or the stake should put an end to the other. Therefore am I a fugitive from justice, and, as the criminal is drawn back to the scene of his crime, here am I confessing to once having written a lovesong. Still, as a moral hangs thereby, the tale may justify the ditty. The rhyme having been committed, I took it, with some others, to my friend Walter Slaughter, the leader of the orchestra of the Royalty Theatre, London, where I had an engagement at the time. He had told me that he wanted some lines to set to music.

"Here you are," said I. "I built this song myself."

"Load' does not rhyme with 'bowed,'" said Slaughter; "cloud' would be better."

I wished that I had thought of "cloud" myself, but I had to accept the amend

ment.

Slaughter came to me a few days after. "I have written some lovely music for your words," said he, "but now I don't like the words and I want to use the music for something else."

"What's the matter with the words?" said I.

"They seem rather senseless," replied Slaughter.

I was a bit dashed, but I had other troubles just then, so I soon forgot all about my song. As a matter of record, here is the song:

"When cruel Fate or weight of years
The head has lowly bowed,
One mem'ry dries the bitter tears
And lightens sorrow's load.

Oh, sweeter than the twittering song
That summer zephyrs bear,

The sound of one dear word that long
Has lingered in mine ear.
When, in the silent winter night,
The shadows of the firelight
The past express-

'Will you be mine?' again I cry.
Again I hear her soft reply:
'My darling, Yes.'

"It is the magic word that opes
The cavern of the past,
Recalling youth and love and hopes
Too honey-sweet to last.

Once more her trembling hand I take,
I press her lips once more,

I hear her voice! I start! I wake!
The dear day-dream is o'er.

When I at eve at summertide,
Kneeling, her flowery grave beside,
Cry in distress,

With heavy heart the sad refrain,
'Ah, shall we ever meet again?'
She murmurs 'Yes.'"

I thought the song rather good and read it frequently. Slaughter was, no doubt, right about "load" and "bowed," but "twittering song" struck me as first-rate. I liked "summer zephyrs," too; "cavern of the past" sounded tip-top and "magic word" was fine, recalling "sesame -Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It seemed fraught with associations of romance. However, I threw the masterpiece over my shoulder and proceeded.

We were busy at this time rehearsing a play called "Out of the Hunt," by Farnie. Richard Mansfield was cast for a small part. The leading comedian was J. G. Taylor. A number of well-known people

were in the cast. We were to open a new theatre in Panton Street, which was not ready, so we were transferred to the Royalty. Mansfield was a young man then, about twenty-four, I should say. He was practically unknown. He soon began to shine at rehearsal. His part was that of an old beau. J. G. Taylor was to play a certain waiter. The play was an adaptation from the French. Farnie was the adaptor, with no pride of authorship, so he allowed Mansfield a good deal of liberty in the way of interpolation and business. Day by day the part of the old beau was built up, especially in Taylor's scenes, until Mansfield's part assumed the proportions of a leading character and Taylor's part, which was the principal comedy part of the play, faded away into the background. We all began to take notice of Mansfield and to perceive that his character was going to be the part of the play.

One day Taylor rebelled. He told Farnie and Alexander Henderson, the manager of the theatre, that he was the leading comedian of the company and that Mansfield's character had now become the most important personage in the comedy. He protested violently. Farnie was in a dilemma. Mansfield's business and additions were so clever and so valuable that he deserved the prominence accorded to him. Taylor was an important actor and could not be dispensed with.

Mansfield came forward. "Would Mr. Taylor like my part?" said he.

Taylor felt that, as the principal comedian, the best part belonged properly to him. He ought to have Mansfield's part. Mansfield handed it to him. "By all means," said he; "here it is," and he handed over the manuscript covered with interpolations, corrections, and business. We resumed our rehearsals.

"You will allow me," said Mansfield to Farnie "you will allow me the same privilege with this new part you were so generous as to accord me with the other? Mr. Taylor has the advantage of my suggestions on the other character; you will permit me to do my best with this?"

"By all means," said Farnie, and to work we went again.

Mansfield built up again. Day by day, little by little, his new part absorbed scene

after scene. Many of his scenes were with Taylor, and again his part began to excel Taylor's part. In the end Mansfield's performance was the play, as far as the play went, for it was a failure, but his work was remarkable. He played some other smaller parts in that theatre and then he went to America. I played a few engagements in London and the provinces and then I followed him. At that time the impression I made was not quite victorious. A critic wrote: "Talent is seldom hereditary. A lamentable instance of this is to be seen at the Royalty."

This was not encouraging and seemed to fulfil my father's predictions. Still, one must live even if other people do not perceive the necessity. If one has a pain in one place, one always believes one could bear it better if it were in another. So, to be "on the go" from where fortune frowns appears to be "on the way" to where that fickle lady may smile.

I went to New York. I could get no employment. There my resources were at an end, so I wrote a play. Having written my play, I looked for some one to produce it. One day I went into a dramatic agent's office-Mr. Spies on Union Square. He was talking with a Mr. Fort who was manager of the Academy of Music at Baltimore. I heard Fort declare that he must have an attraction at once to play three performances for "the police fund benefit" at Baltimore in two weeks from that day.

"I will do it," said I.

"Who are you?" asked Fort.

I told him who I was and spoke of my play.

"How much do you want for yourself and play and company for three performances?" said Fort.

I indulged in some rapid arithmetic. "Two hundred dollars," said I. "I'll give you three hundred," said Fort.

There were seven people in the play. Myself and my sister and my friend Joseph Haworth were three. I engaged the other four and started rehearsal.

We went to Baltimore. The theatre was crowded for the benefit performances. The play went like wild-fire. I had been my own stage-manager, my own business manager; I had played the leading part

"Who played the chief part?" "I did."

"Who's the manager?" "I am."

"Look here," said he, "since you wrote the play and play the chief part and manage the show, you can write the notice," and that large man motioned me to a chair and to pen, ink, and paper.

Alas! I was too ingenuous. At a later day would I not have lauded myself to the skies and blown a blast to wake the heavens? Now I blushed and stammered and retreated in confusion. I believe the big man took pity on me, for a review appeared next morning saying the play was one of the wonders of the earth.

Our fame spread to New York, and I received an offer to open at Wallack's Theatre, later the Star. We played there one week and made money; we played a second week and-lost it. We then went to Brooklyn and collapsed. We were done for. However, one John P. Smith, a manager of the day, took up our banner, and off we went on a tour the next season. He changed the title of the play to "Crushed," which proved ominous, for "crushed" we were. We went from bad to worse until we got back to Baltimore. The policemen who acclaimed us so wildly before surely now would rally to our rescue. Not a bit of it. Those policemen avoided us as though we were honest men. Disaster overwhelmed us. We returned to New York. I had not one penny in my pocket. Smith had lost a good deal of money, and I could not ask him for anything. The company left me at the depot. Smith went off in a cab. I stood

beside a very large gripsack, literally without one cent in the world. It was Sunday, about eleven o'clock in the morning. Very few people were about in the lower part of New York, for the depot was away down-town then. A young fellow named Armstrong was the only one of the company who stayed behind.

"Are you going up-town?" said he. "Yes," said I. "I'm waiting for a car. Armstrong," said I, "have you any change?"

"Not a nickel," said Armstrong.

"Then we'll have to walk," said I, "for I have none either."

We lifted our bags-mine was an awful weight-and up Broadway on that damp, misty Sunday morning we trudged. The tramp was interminable. My bag bothered me so I had to stop and change hands every block. Still, I was rather glad Armstrong was there, for misery loves company. We walked to the Sturtevant House on Broadway and 29th Street, where I had always found shelter under the wing of the kindly proprietor, Charles Leland.

Weary and wet and disheartened, without funds and without prospect, I entered the office. Sadly I reflected that my hair needed cutting; more sadly I reflected that barbers have to be paid for their services. I registered my name at the desk. My old friend Mr. Scofield, the clerk, handed me a letter with an English postmark. I opened it. It was from Slaughter. Said he: "I enclose a draft for three pounds, your share from the sale of that song of yours."

Who shall say that the Muse is ungrateful? Who shall say that the rhymester follows a will-o'-the-wisp? Who shall say that "loves" and "doves" and "hearts" and "darts" and "kisses" and "blisses" are for fools and their follies? Here I had three pounds, the reward of such rhyming. "Armstrong," said I, "we will have our hair cut."

We did. I asked Armstrong to breakfast on the American plan. I walked out into the open air a free man once more. Three pounds! The world was mine!

A period of repose was forced upon me, however. I did not find anything to do for about a month; then I joined a company playing the prophetic repertoire of