DETROIT, April 04, 1890.
... Yes; it is indeed most gratifying to feel that age has not
rendered my work stale and tiresome, as is usually the case with
actors (especially tragedians) at my time. Your dear mother's fear
was that I would culminate too early, as I seemed then to be advancing
so rapidly. Somehow I can't rid myself of the belief that both she
and my father helped me. But as for the compensation? Nothing of
fame or fortune can compensate for the spiritual suffering that one
possessing such qualities has to endure. To pass life in a sort of
dream, where "nothing is but what is not"--a loneliness in the very
midst of a constant crowd, as it were--is not a desirable condition of
existence, especially when the body also has to share the "penalty of
greatness," as it is termed. Bosh! I'd sooner be an obscure farmer,
a hayseed from Wayback, or a cabinetmaker, as my father advised, than
the most distinguished man on earth. But Nature cast me for the part
she found me best fitted for, and I have had to play it, and must play
it till the curtain falls. But you must not think me sad about it.
No; I am used to it, and am contented.
I continue well, and act with a vigour which sometimes surprises
myself, and all the company notice it, and comment upon it. I'm glad
the babes had a jolly birthday. Bless 'em! Love for all.