with rather sparing estimates of his eminence and his genius, though his
success in London, where he was well known, had been unequivocal. Indeed,
himself, alone with Edwin Booth and Mary Anderson, may be said to complete
the list of those Americans who have attained any real recognition in the
British metropolis. The Times spoke of him as "an able if not a great
actor." If Joseph Jefferson was not a great actor I should like some
competent person to tell me what actor of our time could be so described.

Two or three of the journals of Paris referred to him as "the American
Coquelin." It had been apter to describe Coquelin as the French Jefferson.
I never saw Frederic Lemaitre. But, him apart, I have seen all the
eccentric comedians, the character actors of the last fifty years, and, in
spell power, in precision and deftness of touch, in acute, penetrating,
all-embracing and all-embodying intelligence and grasp, I should place
Joseph Jefferson easily at their head.

Shakespeare was his Bible. The stage had been his cradle. He continued all
his days a student. In him met the meditative and the observing faculties.
In his love of fishing, his love of painting, his love of music we see the
brooding, contemplative spirit joined to the alert in mental force and
foresight when he addressed himself to the activities and the objectives
of the theater. He was a thorough stage manager, skillful, patient and
upright. His company was his family. He was not gentler with the children
and grandchildren he ultimately drew about him than he had been with the
young men and young women who had preceded them in his employment and
instruction.

He was nowise ashamed of his calling. On the contrary, he was proud of it.
His mother had lived and died an actress. He preferred that his progeny
should follow in the footsteps of their forebears even as he had done.