Whenever I think of them I think of the spectacle that genius of the burlesque¹ world of my day, Nat Wills, used to present when, in fluttering rags and tatters, his vestless shirt open at the breast, revealing no underwear, his shoes three times too big, and torn and cracked, a small battered² straw hat, from a hole in which his hair protruded³, his trousers upheld by a string, and that indefinable smirk⁴ of satisfaction of which he was capable flickering⁵ over his dirty and unshaven face he was wont⁶ to strike an attitude worthy⁷ of a flight of oratory⁸, and exclaim: “Fifteen years ago to-day I was a poor, dispirited, broken-down tramp sitting on a bench in a park, not a shirt to my back. Not a decent pair of shoes on my feet. A hat with a hole in it. No money to get a shave or a bath or a place to sleep. No place to eat. Not a friend in the world to turn to. My torn and frayed⁹ trousers held up by a string. Yet” (striking his chest dramatically) “look at me now!” And then he would lift one hand dramatically, as much as to say, “Could any change be greater?”