Poor little tots!  Poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how I would like to cry, “Don’t let us say anything more about the masher, and then we’ll all be quite happy;” but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger.  The stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination.  These “Johnnies” who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love—­they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple.  These young “taddies,” with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,—­each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses.

One of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an “actress” until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged.  Mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer.  What nonsense!  Any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence.  Letters are his chief weapon.  If they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble.  A gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn.  If the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be sufficient; the “masher” will at once “take notice” of some other door and probably of some other actress.  But I am asked, Why does he exist?  And I suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny’s pocket-book.  Wait, now; please don’t jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls.  Most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves.  Of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them.  Before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend itself, if need be, with a blow.  A refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door “masher,” who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the jeunesse doree.