I know, then, of but three powers that can open the stage door to a girl who comes straight from private life,—­a fortune, great influence, or superlative beauty.  With a large amount of money a girl can unquestionably tempt a manager whose business is not too good, to give her an engagement.  If influence is used, it must indeed be of a high social order to be strong enough favourably to affect the box-office receipts, and thus win an opening for the young debutante.  As for beauty, it must be something very remarkable that will on its strength alone secure a girl an engagement.  Mere prettiness will not do.  Nearly all American girls are pretty.  It must be a radiant and compelling beauty, and every one knows that there are not many such beauties, stage-struck or otherwise.

The next question is most often put by the parents or friends of the would-be actress; and when with clasped hands and in-drawn breath they ask about the temptations peculiar to the profession of acting, all my share of the “old Adam” rises within me.  For you see I honour the profession in which I have served, girl and woman, so many years, and it hurts me to have one imply that it is filled with strange and terrible pitfalls for women.  I have received the confidences of many working-women,—­some in professions, some in trades, and some in service,—­and on these confidences I have founded my belief that every woman who works for her living must eat with her bread the bitter salt of insult.  Not even the plain girl escapes paying this penalty put upon her unprotected state.

Still, insult does not mean temptation, by any means.  But careful inquiry has shown me that temptation assails working-women in any walk of life, and that the profession of acting has nothing weird or novel to offer in the line of danger; to be quite frank, all the possibilities of resisting or yielding lie with the young woman herself.  What will tempt one beyond her powers of resistance, will be no temptation at all to another.

However, parents wishing to frighten their daughters away from the stage have naturally enough set up several great bugaboos collectively known as “temptations”—­individually known as the “manager,” the “public,” etc.

There seems to be a general belief that a manager is a sort of dramatic “Moloch,” upon whose altar is sacrificed all ambitious femininity.  In declaring that to be a mistaken idea, I do not for a moment imply that managers are angels; for such a suggestion would beyond a doubt secure me a quiet summer at some strictly private sanitarium; but I do mean to say that, like the gentleman whom we all know by hearsay, but not by sight, they are not so black as they are painted.