h him to the very grave.
Many a fine _Mercutio_ gives:

"----a plague o' both your houses!"

with a resentful bitterness that implies blame to _Romeo_ for his "taking
off," which would be a most cruel legacy of grief and remorse to leave to
his young friend--but Adams was that brave _Mercutio_:

"That gallant spirit that aspired the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth."

and whose last quips, coming faintly across paling lips, expressed still
good-natured fun, and so:

"----a plague o' both your houses!"

but no blame at all.

His grace of movement and his superb voice were his greatest gifts. Most
stars had one rather short play which they reserved for Saturday nights,
that they might be able to catch their night train _en route_ for the
next engagement; so it happened that Mr. Adams, having bravely held
temptation from him during the first five nights, generally yielded to
the endearments of his friends by the sixth, and was most anyone but
himself when he came to dress for the performance of a play most
suggestively named: "The Drunkard." It was a painful and a humiliating
sight to see him wavering uncertainly in the entrance. All brightness,
intelligence, and high endeavor extinguished by liquor's murky fog. His
apologies were humble and evidently sincere, but the sad memory was one
not to be forgotten.

I had just married, and we were in San Francisco. I was rehearsing for my
engagement there. The papers said Mr. Adams had arrived from Australia
and had been carried on a stretcher to a hotel, where, with his devoted
wife by his side, he lay dying. A big lump rose in my throat, tears
filled my eyes. I asked my husband, who had greatly admired the actor,
and who was glad to pay him any courtesy or service possible, to call,
leave cards, and if he saw Mrs. Adams, which was improbable, to try to
coax her out for a drive, if but for half an hour, and to deliver a
message of remembrance and sympathy from me to her husband. To his
surprise, he was admitted by the dying man's desire to his room, where
the worn, weary, self-contained, ever gently smiling wife sat and, like
an automaton, fanned hour by hour, softly, steadily fanned breath between
those parched lips, that whispered a gracious message of congratulation
and thanks.

Mrs. Adams never left him, scarce took her eyes from him. Poor wife! who
knew she could hold him but a few hours longer.

My husband was deeply m