ssly true,
and sweet, and natural. Her spontaneous laugh is as infectiously
gleeful as Joe Jefferson's chuckle. Those who have never seen her in
this part can hardly realize how fine a comedienne she really is.

Mr. Herne's next play was simpler, stronger, and better, though less
picturesque. _Drifting Apart_ was based upon the commonest of life's
tragedies--the home of a drunkard. It is the most effective of
sermons, without one word of preaching. The drifting apart of husband
and wife through the husband's "failin'" is set forth with unexampled
concreteness, and yet there is no introduction of horror. We
understand it all by the sufferings of the wife, with whom we
alternately hope and despair. I copy here what I wrote of it at the
time when I knew neither Mr. and Mrs. Herne, nor any other of their
plays.

The second act in this play for tenderness and truth has not been
surpassed in any American play. A daring thing exquisitely done
was that holiest of confidences between husband and wife. The
vast audience sat hushed as death before that touching, almost
sacred scene, as they do when sitting before some great tragedy.

What does this mean, if not that our dramatists have been too
distrustful of the public? They have gone round the earth in
search of material for plays, not knowing that the most moving
of all life is that which lies closest at hand, after all.

Mrs. Herne's acting of Mary Miller was my first realization of the
compelling power of truth. It was so utterly opposed to the "tragedy
of the legitimate." Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like
the great fact of living. No noise, no contortions of face or limbs,
yet somehow I was made to feel the dumb, inarticulate, interior agony
of a mother. Never before had such acting faced me across the
footlights. The fourth act was like one of Millet's paintings, with
that mysterious quality of reserve--the quality of life again.

In this play, as in _Hearts of Oak_, there was no villain and no plot.
The scene was laid in a fishing village near Gloucester. I can do no
better than to give you a taste of the quaint second act.

It is Christmas eve and Jack and Mary have been married a year. Jack
is preparing to go out. Mary is secretly disturbed over his going but
hides it. "Mother" sits by the fire knitting. Mary is sewing by the
window.

_Jack._ Say, Mary! D'you know, I can shave myself better'n any